/I  l 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


O-rt) 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 


BY  CHARLES  HORTON  COOLEY 


SOCIAL  PROCESS 

SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION:  A  STUDY  OF  THE 
LARGER  MIND 

HUMAN  NATURE  AND  THE  SOCIAL  ORDER 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 


A  STUDY  OF  THE  LAKGER  MIND 


BY 

CHARLES  HORTON  COOLEY 

PBOFESSOR    OF    SOCIOLOGY    IN    THE    UNIVERSITT    OF    MICHIGAN- 
AUTHOR  OF   "human   nature   and  the   SOCIAL  order" 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1924 


Copyright,  1909,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Published  April,  1909 


Zb  / 

^775 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 

WHOSE  INrLUENCE  IS  A  CHIEF 
SOURCE  OF  ANY  LITEEAEY 
MERIT     IT     MAT     HAVE 


207^605 


PREFACE 

Our  life  is  all  one  human  whole,  and  if  we  are  to  have 
any  real  knowledge  of  it  we  must  see  it  as  such.  If  we 
cut  it  up  it  dies  in  the  process:  and  so  I  conceive  that  the 
various  branches  of  research  that  deal  with  this  whole 
are  properly  distinguished  by  change  in  the  point  of  sight 
rather  than  by  any  division  in  the  thing  that  is  seen.  Ac- 
cordingly, in  a  former  book  (Human  Nature  and  Social 
Order),  I  tried  to  see  society  as  it  exists  in  the  social 
nature  of  man  and  to  display  that  in  its  main  oudines. 
In  this  one  the  eye  is  focussed  on  the  enlargement  and 
diversification  of  intercourse  which  I  have  called  Social 
Organization,  the  individual,  though  visible,  remaining 
slightly  in  the  background. 

It  will  be  seen  from  my  tide  and  all  my  treatment  that 
I  apprehend  the  subject  on  the  mental  rather  than  the 
material  side.  I  by  no  means,  however,  overlook  or  wish 
to  depreciate  the  latter,  to  which  I  am  willing  to  ascribe  all 
the  importance  that  any  one  can  require  for  it.  Our  task 
as  students  of  society  is  a  large  one,  and  each  of  us,  I  sup- 
pose, may  undertake  any  part  of  it  to  which  he  feels  at 
all  competent. 

Ann  Arbob,  Mich.,  February,  1909. 


CONTENTS 


PART  I— PRIMARY  ASPECTS  OF  ORGANIZATION 
CHAPTER  I 

SOCIAL   AND    INDIVIDUAL   ASPECTS    OF   MIND 

PAGE 

Mind  an  Organic  Whole — Conscious  and  Unconscious  Relations 
— Does  Self -Consciousness  Come  First?  Cogito,  Ergo  Sum 
— ^The  Larger  Introspection — Self-Consciousness  in  Chil- 
dren— Public  Consciousness 3 

CHAPTER   II 

SOCIAL  AND    INDIVIDUAL   ASPECTS    OF   MIND — (CONTINUED) 

Moral  Aspect  of  the  Organic  View — It  Implies  that  Reform 
Should  Be  Based  on  Sympathy — Uses  of  Praise  and  Blame 
— Responsibility  Broadened  but  Not  Lost — Moral  Value  of 
a  Larger  View — Organic  Morality  Calls  for  Knowledge — 
Nature  of  Social  Organization 13 

CHAPTER   III 

PRIMARY    GROUPS 

Meaning  of  Primary  Groups — Family,  Playground,  and  Neigh- 
borhood— How  Far  Influenced  by  Larger  Society — Meaning 
and  Permanence  of  "Human  Nature" — Primary  Groups  the 
Nursery  of  Human  Nature 23 

CHAPTER   IV 

PRIMARY    IDEALS 

Nature  of  Primary  Ideahsm— The  Ideal  of  a  "We"  or  Moral 
Unity — It  Does  Not  Exclude  Self- Assertion-  -Ideals  Spring- 
ing from  Hostility — Loyalty,  Truth,   Service — Kindness — 

ix 


CONTENTS 

Lawfulness — Freedom — The  Doctrine  of  Natural  Right — 
Bearing  of  Primary  Idealism  upon  Education  and  Philan- 
thropy   32 

CHAPTER  V 

THE    EXTENSION    OF    PRIMARY   IDEALS 

Primary  Ideals  Underiie  Democracy  and  Christianity — Why 
They  Are  Not  Achieved  on  a  Larger  Scale — What  They  Re- 
quire from  Personality — From  Social  Mechanism — The 
Principle  of  Compensation 51 


PART  II— COMMUNICATION 
CHAPTER  VI 

THE    SIGNIFICANCE    OF    COMMUNICATION 

Meaning  of  Communication — Its  Relation  to  Human  Nature 
— ^To  Society  at  Large 61 

CHAPTER  VII 

THE    GROWTH    OF   COMMUNICATION 

Pre- Verbal  Communication — The  Rise  of  Speech — Its  Mental 
and  Social  Function — The  Function  of  Writing — Printing 
and   the   Modern   World — The    Non- Verbal  Arts        .         .     66 

CHAPTER   VIII 

MODERN   communication:    ENLARGEMENT   AND    ANIMATION 

Character  of  Recent  Changes — Their  General  Effect — The 
Change  in  the  United  States — Organized  Gossip — Public 
Opinion,  Democracy,  Internationalism — The  Value  of 
Diffusion — Enlargement  of  Feeling — Conclusion  .         .        .80 

CHAPTER   IX 

MODERN    communication:    INDIVIDUALITY 

The  Question — Why  Communication  Should  Foster  Individu- 
ahty — The  Contrary  or  Dead-Level  Theory — Reconcilia- 
tion of  These  Views — The  Outlook  as  Regards  Individuality    91 

X 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  X 

MODERN   communication:    SUPERFICIALITY    AND    STRAIN 

FAQE 

Stimulating  Effect  of  Modern  Life — Superficiality — Strain — 
Pathological  Effects 98 

PART  III— THE  DEMOCRATIC  MIND 
CHAPTER  XI 

THE    ENLARGEMENT    OF   CONSCIOUSNESS 

Narrowness  of  Consciousness  in  Tribal  Society — Importance  of 
Face-to-Face  Assembly — Individuality — Subconscious  Char- 
acter of  Wider  Relations — Enlargement  of  Consciousness — 
Irregularity  in  Growth — Breadth  of  Modern  Consciousness 
— Democracy 107 

CHAPTER   XII 

THE  THEORY    OF   PUBLIC   OPINION 

Public  Opinion  as  Organization — Agreement  Not  Essential — 
Public  Opinion  versus  Popular  Impression — Public  Thought 
Not  an  Average — A  Group  Is  Capable  of  Expression  through 
Its  Most  Competent  Members — General  and  Special  Public 
Opinion — The  Sphere  of  the  Former — Of  the  Latter — The 
Two  Are  United  in  Personality — How  Pubhc  Opinion  Rules 
— Effective  Rule  Based  on  Moral  Unity       .        .        .         .121 

CHAPTER   XIII 

WHAT   THE    MASSES    CONTRIBUTE 

The  Masses  the  Initiators  of  Sentiment — They  Live  in  the  Cen- 
tral Current  of  Experience — Distinction  or  Privilege  Apt  to 
Cause  Isolation — Institutional  Character  of  Upper  Classes 
— The  Masses  Shrewd  Judges  of  Persons — This  the  Main 
Ground  for  Expecting  that  the  People  Will  Be  Right  in  the 
Long  Run — Democracy  Always  Representative — Con- 
clusion   135 

xi 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  XIV 

DEMOCRACY   AND    CROWD    EXCITEMENT 

PAQB 

The  Crowd-Theory  of  Modern  Life — The  Psychology  of  Crowds 
— Modern  Conditions  Favor  Psychological  Contagion — De- 
mocracy a  Training  in  Self-Control — The  Crowd  Not  Always 
in  the  Wrong — Conclusion;  the  Case  of  France    .        .        .  149 

CHAPTER  XV 

DEMOCRACY   AND    DISTINCTION 

The  Problem — Democracy  Should  Be  Distinguished  frora 
Transition — The  Dead-Level  Theory  of  Democracy — Con- 
fusion and  Its  Effects — "  Individualism  "  May  Not  Be  Favor- 
able to  Distinguished  Individuality — Contemporary  Uni- 
formity— Relative  Advantages  of  America  and  Europe — 
Haste,  Superficiality,  Strain — Spiritual  Economy  of  a  Set- 
tled Order — Commercialism — Zeal  for  Diffusion — Con- 
clusion   157 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE   TREND    OF   SENTIMENT 

Meaning  and  General  Trend  of  Sentiment — Attenuation — Re- 
finement— Sense  of  Justice — Truth  as  Justice — As  Realism 
As  Expediency — ^As  Economy  of  Attention — Hopefulness    177 

CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   TREND    OF   SENTIMENT — ^CONTINUED) 

Nature  of  the  Sentiment  of  Brotherhood — Favored  by  Com- 
munication and  Settled  Principles — How  Far  Contemporary 
Life  Fosters  It — How  Far  Uncongenial  to  It — General  Out- 
come in  this  Regard — The  Spirit  of  Service — The  Trend  of 
Manners — Brotherhood  in  Relation  to  Conflict — Blame — 

Democracy  and  Christianity 189 

xii 


CONTENTS 

PART  IV— SOCIAL  CLASSES 
CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    HEREDITARY   OR   CASTE    PRINCIPLE 


PAGE 


Nature  and  Use  of  Classes — Inheritance  and  Competition  the 
Two  Principles  upon  which  Classes  Are  Based — Conditions 
in  Human  Nature  Making  for  Hereditary  Classes — Caste 
Spirit 209 

CHAPTER  XIX 

CONDITIONS   FAVORING   OR   OPPOSING  THE   GROWTH   OF  CASTE 

Three  Conditions  Affecting  the  Increase  or  Diminution  of  Caste 
— Race-Caste — Immigration  and  Conquest — Gradual  Dif- 
ferentiation of  Functions;  Mediaeval  Caste;  India — In- 
fluence of  Settled  Conditions — Influence  of  the  State  of 
Communication  and  Enlightenment — Conclusion        .        .217 

CHAPTER  XX 

THE    OUTLOOK    REGARDING   CASTE 

The  Question — How  Far  the  Inheritance  Principle  Actually 
Prevails — Influences  Favoring  Its  Growth — Those  Antag- 
onizing It — The  Principles  of  Inheritance  and  Equal  Op- 
portunity as  Affecting  Social  Efliciency — Conclusion    .        .  229 

CHAPTER  XXI 

OPEN   CLASSES 

The  Nature  of  Open  Classes — ^Whether  Class-Consciousness  Is 
Desirable — Fellowship  and  Cooperation  Deficient  in  Our 
Society — Class  Organization  in  Relation  to  Freedom  ,        .  239 

CHAPTER   XXII 

HOW  FAR   WEALTH   IS   THE    BASIS   OF   OPEN  CLASSES 

Impersonal  Character  of  Open  Classes — Various  Classifications — 
Classes,  as  Commonly  Understood,  Based  on  Obvious  Dis- 

xiii 


CONTENTS 

PAOB 

tinctions — ^Wealth  as  Generalized  Power — Economic  Better- 
ment  a°  an  Ideal  of  the  Ill-Paid  Classes — Conclusion    .        .  248 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

ON   THE    ASCENDENCY    OF   A   CAPITALIST   CLASS 

The  Capitalist  Class — Its  Lack  of  Caste  Sentiment — In  What 
Sense  "the  Fittest" — Moral  Traits — How  Far  Based  on  Ser- 
vice— Autocratic  and  Democratic  Principles  in  the  Control 
of  Industry — Reasons  for  Expecting  an  Increase  of  the 
Democratic  Principle — Social  Power  in  General — Organizing 
Capacity — Nature  and  Sources  of  Capitalist  Power — Power 
over  the  Press  and  over  Public  Sentiment — Upper  Class 
Atmosphere 256 

CHAPTER  XXIV 

ON   THE   ASCENDENCY    OF   A   CAPITALIST   CLASS — (CONTINUED) 

The  Influence  of  Ambitious  Young  Men — Security  of  the  Dom- 
inant Class  in  an  Open  System — Is  There  Danger  of  Anarchy 
and  Spohation? — Whether  the  Sway  of  Riches  Is  Greater 
Now  than  Formerly — ^Whether  Greater  in  America  than  in 
England 273 

CHAPTER   XXV 

THE   ORGANIZATION   OF  THE   ILL-PAID   CLASSES 

The  Need  of  Class  Organization — Uses  and  Dangers  of  Unions 
— General  Disposition  of  the  Hand- Working  Classes      .        .  284 

CHAPTER  XXVI 

POVERTY 

The  Meaning  of  Poverty — Personal  and  General  Causes — Pov- 
erty in  a  Prosperous  Society  Due  Chiefly  to  Maladjustment 
—Are  the  Poor  the  "  Unfit "?— Who  Is  to  Blame  for  Poverty? 
— Attitude    of   Society   toward   the    Poor — Fundamental 

Remedies 290 

xiv 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER  XXVII 

HOSTILE   FEELING    BETWEEN   CLA88B8 

PAOa 

Conditions  Producing  Class  Animosity — The  Spirit  of  Service 
Allays  Bitterness — Possible  Decrease  of  the  Prestige  of 
Wealth — Probability  of  a  More  Communal  Spirit  in  the 
Use  of  Wealth — Influence  of  Settled  Rules  for  Social  Oppo- 
flition — Importance  of  Face-to-Face  Discussion  .        .  301 

PART  V— INSTITUTIONS 
CHAPTER   XXVIII 

INSTITUTIONS   AND    THE    INDIVIDUAL 

The  Nature  of  Institutions — Hereditary  and  Social  Factors — 
The  Child  and  the  World — Society  and  Personality — Person- 
ality versus  the  Institution — The  Institution  as  a  Basis  of 
Personality — The  Moral  Aspect — Choice  versus  Mechanism 
— Personality  the  Life  of  Institutions — Institutions  Becom- 
ing Freer  in  Structure 313 

CHAPTER  XXIX 

INSTITUTIONS   AND   THE    INDIVIDUAL — (CONTINUED) 

Innovation  as  a  Personal  Tendency — Innovation  and  Conserva- 
tism as  Public  Habit — Solidarity — French  and  Anglo-Saxon 
Solidarity — Tradition  and  Convention — Not  so  Opposite  as 
They  Appear — Real  Difference,  in  this  Regard,  between 
Modern  and  Mediaeval  Society — Traditionalism  and  Con- 
ventionalism in  Modern  Life 327 

CHAPTER   XXX 

FORMALISM   AND    DISORGANIZATION 

The  Nature  of  Formalism — Its  Effect  upon  Personality — Form- 
alism in  Modern  Life — Disorganization,  "Individualism" 
— How  it  Affects  the  Individual — Relation  to  Formalism — 
"Individualism"  Implies  Defective  Sympathy — Contem- 
porary "  IndividuaUsm  " — Restlessness  under  Discomfort — 
The  Better  Aspect  of  Disorganization  ....  342 

XV 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  XXXI 

disorganization:  the  family 

Old  and  New  Regimes  in  the  Family — The  Declining  Birth-Rate 
— "Spoiled"  Children — The  Opening  of  New  Careers  to 
Women — European  and  American  Points  of  View — Personal 
Factors  in  Divorce — Institutional  Factors — Conclusion      .  356 

CHAPTER  XXXII 

disorganization:  the  church 

The  Psychological  View  of  Religion — The  Need  of  Social 
Structure — Creeds — Why  Symbols  Tend  to  Become  Formal 
— Traits  of  a  Good  System  of  Symbols — Contemporary 
Need  of  Religion — Newer  Tendencies  in  the  Church    ,        .  372 

CHAPTER  XXXIII 

disorganization:  other  traditions 

Disorder  in  the  Economic  System — In  Education — In  Higher 
Culture— In  the  Fine  Arts 383 

PART  VI— PUBLIC  WILL 
CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE   function   OF   PUBLIC   WILL 

Public  and  Private  Will— The  Lack  of  Public  Will— Social 
Wrongs  Commonly  Not  Willed  at  All 395 

CHAPTER  XXXV 

GOVERNMENT   AS   PUBLIC   WILL 

Government  Not  the  Only  Agent  of  Public  Will — The  Relative 
Point  of  View;  Advantages  of  Grovernment  as  an  Agent — 
Mechanical  Tendency  of  Government — Characteristics  Fa- 
vorable to  Government  Activity — Municipal  Socialism — Self- 
Expression  the  Fundamental  Demand  of  the  People — Actual 

Extension  of  State  Functions 402 

xvi 


CONTENTS 
CHAPTER   XXXVI 

SOME  PHASES  OF  THE  LARGER  WILL 


l-AGE 


Growing  EflBciency  of  the  Intellectual  Processes — Organic 
Idealism — The  Larger  Morality — Indirect  Service — Increas- 
ing Simplicity  and  Flexibility  in  Social  Structure — Public 
Will  Saves  Part  of  the  Cost  of  Change — Human  Nature  the 
Guiding  Force  behind  Public  Will 411 

Index 9        9        •        .  421 


XVU 


PART  1 
PRIMARY  ASPECTS  OF  ORGANIZATION 


SOCIAL    ORGANIZATION 

CHAPTER  I 

SOCIAL  AND  INDIVIDUAL  ASPECTS  OF  MIND 

Mind  an  Organic  Whole — Conscious  and  Unconscious  Rela- 
tions— Does  Self-Consciousness  Come  First  ?  Cogito,  Ergo 
Sum — The  Larger  Introspection — Self-Consciousness  in 
Children — Public  Consciousness. 

Mind  is  an  organic  whole  made  up  of  cooperating 
individualities,  in  somewhat  the  same  way  that  the  music 
of  an  orchestra  is  made  up  of  divergent  but  related  sounds. 
No  one  would  think  it  necessary  or  reasonable  to  divide 
the  music  into  two  kinds,  that  made  by  the  whole  and  that 
of  particular  instruments,  and  no  more  are  there  two  kinds 
of  mind,  the  social  mind  and  the  individual  mind.  When 
we  study  the  social  mind  we  merely  fix  our  attention  on 
larger  aspects  and  relations  rather  than  on  the  narrower 
ones  of  ordinary  psychology. 

The  view  that  all  mind  acts  together  in  a  vital  whole 
from  which  the  individual  is  never  really  separate  flows 
naturally  from  our  growing  knowledge  of  heredity  and 
suggestion,  which  makes  it  increasingly  clear  that  every 
thought  we  have  is  linked  with  the  thought  of  our  an- 
cestors and  associates,  and  through  them  with  that  of 
society  at  large.     It  is  also  the  only  view  consistent  with 

3 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

the  general  standpoint  of  modern  science,  which  admits 
nothing  isolate  in  nature. 

The  unity  of  the  social  mind  consists  not  in  agreement 
but  in  organization,  in  the  fact  of  reciprocal  influence  or 
causation  among  its  parts,  by  virtue  of  which  everything 
that  takes  place  in  it  is  connected  with  everything  else, 
and  so  is  an  outcome  of  the  whole.  Whether,  like  the 
orchestra,  it  gives  forth  harmony  may  be  a  matter  of  dis- 
pute, but  that  its  sound,  pleasing  or  otherwise,  is  the  ex- 
pression of  a  vital  cooperation,  cannot  well  be  denied. 
Certainly  everything  that  I  say  or  think  is  influenced  by 
what  others  have  said  or  thought,  and,  in  one  way  or  an- 
other, sends  out  an  influence  of  its  own  in  turn. 

This  differentiated  unity  of  mental  or  social  life,  pres- 
ent in  the  simplest  intercourse  but  capable  of  infinite 
growth  and  adaptation,  is  what  I  mean  in  this  work  by 
social  organization.  It  would  be  useless,  I  think,  to  at- 
tempt a  more  elaborate  definition.  We  have  only  to 
open  our  eyes  to  see  organization;  and  if  we  cannot  do 
that  no  definition  will  help  us. 

af^  In  the  social  mind  we  may  distinguish — very  roughly 
of  course — conscious  and  unconscious  relations,  the  un- 
conscious being  those  of  which  we  are  not  aware,  which 
for  some  :  eason  escape  our  notice.  A  great  part  of  the 
influences  at  work  upon  us  are  of  this  character:  our 
language,  our  mechanical  arts,  our  government  and  other 
institutions,  we  derive  chiefly  from  people  to  whom  we 
are  but  indirectly  and  unconsciously  related.  The  larger 
movements  of  society — the  progress  and  decadence  of 
nations,    institutions    and    races — have    seldom    been    a 

4 


SOCIAL  AND  INDIVIDUAL  ASPECTS  OF  MIND 

matter  of  consciousness  until  they  were  past.  And  al- 
though the  growth  of  social  consciousness  is  perhaps  the 
greatest  fact  of  history,  it  has  still  but  a  narrow  and  fallible 
grasp  of  human  life. 

Social  consciousness,  or  awareness  of  societ}',  is  in- 
separable from  self-consciousness,  because  we  can  hardly 
think  of  ourselves  excepting  with  reference  to  a  social 
group  of  some  sort,  or  of  the  group  except  with  reference 
to  ourselves.  The  two  things  go  together,  and  what  we 
are  really  aware  of  is  a  more  or  less  complex  personal  or 
social  whole,  of  which  now  the  particular,  now  the  general, 
aspect  is  emphasized. 

In  general,  then,  most  of  our  reflective  consciousness, 
of  our  wide-awake  state  of  mind,  is  social  consciousness, 
because  a  sense  of  our  relation  to  other  persons,  or  of 
other  persons  to  one  another,  can  hardly  fail  to  be  a  part 
of  it.  Self  and  society  are  twin-born,  we  know  one  as 
immediately  as  we  know  the  other,  and  the  notion  of  a 
separate  and  independent  ego  is  an  illusion. 

This  view,  which  seems  to  me  quite  simple  and  in  ac- 
cord with  common-sense,  is  not  the  one  most  commonly 
held,  for  psychologists  and  even  sociologists  are  still 
much  infected  with  the  idea  that  self-consciousness  is  in 
some  way  primary,  and  antecedent  to  social  conscious- 
ness, which  must  be  derived  by  some  recondite  process  of 
combination  or  elimination.  I  venture,  therefore,  to 
give  some  further  exposition  of  it,  based  in  part  on  first- 
hand observation  of  the  growth  of  social  ideas  in  children. 

Descartes  is,  I  suppose,  the  best-known  exponent  of  the 
traditional  view  regarding  the  primacy  of  self-conscious- 

5 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

ness.  Seeking  an  unquestionable  basis  for  philosophy, 
he  thought  that  he  found  it  in  the  proposition  "I  think, 
therefore  I  am"  {cogito,  ergo  sum).  This  seemed  to  him 
inevitable,  though  all  else  might  be  illusion.  "I  ob- 
served," he  says,  "  that,  whilst  I  thus  wished  to  think  that 
all  was  false,  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  I,  who  thus 
thought,  should  be  somewhat;  and  as  I  observed  that 
this  truth,  I  think,  hence  I  am,  was  so  certain  and  of  such 
evidence  that  no  ground  of  doubt,  however  extravagant, 
could  be  alleged  by  the  sceptics  capable  of  shaking  it, 
I  concluded  that  I  might,  without  scruple,  accept  it  as 
the  first  principle  of  the  philosophy  of  which  I  was  in 
search."  * 

From  our  point  of  view  this  reasoning  is  unsatisfactory 
in  two  essential  respects.  In  the  first  place  it  seems  to 
imply  that  "  I  "-consciousness  is  a  part  of  all  conscious- 
ness, when,  in  fact,  it  belongs  only  to  a  rather  advanced 
stage  of  development.  In  the  second  it  is  one-sided  or 
*' individualistic"  in  asserting  the  personal  or  "I"  aspect 
to  the  exclusion  of  the  social  or  "we"  aspect,  which  is 
equally  original  with  it. 

Introspection  is  essential  to  psychological  or  social  in- 
sight, but  the  introspection  of  Descartes  was,  in  this  in- 
stance, a  limited,  almost  abnormal,  sort  of  introspection 
—that  of  a  self-absorbed  philosopher  doing  his  best  to 
isolate  himself  from  other  people  and  from  all  simple  and 
natural  conditions  of  life.  The  mind  into  which  he  looked 
was  in  a  highly  technical  state,  not  likely  to  give  him  a 
just  view  of  human  consciousness  in  general. 
*  Discourse  on  Method,  part  iv. 
6 


SOCIAL  AND  INDIVIDUAL  ASPECTS  OF  MIND 

Introspection  is  of  a  larger  sort  in  our  day.  There  is  a 
world  of  things  in  the  mind  worth  looking  at,  and  the 
modern  psychologist,  instead  of  fixing  his  attention  wholly 
on  an  extreme  form  of  speculative  self-consciousness,  puts 
his  mind  through  an  infinite  variety  of  experiences,  in- 
tellectual and  emotional,  simple  and  complex,  normal 
and  abnormal,  sociable  and  private,  recording  in  each 
case  what  he  sees  in  it.  He  does  this  by  subjecting  it  to 
suggestions  or  incitements  of  various  kinds,  which  awaken 
the  activities  he  desires  to  study. 

In  particular  he  does  it  largely  by  what  may  be  called 
sympathetic  introspection ,  putting  himself  into  intimate 
contact  with  various  sorts  of  persons  and  allowing  them 
to  awake  in  himself  a  life  similar  to  their  own,  which  he 
afterwards,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  recalls  and  describes. 
In  this  way  he  is  more  or  less  able  to  understand — always 
by  introspection — children,  idiots,  criminals,  rich  and 
poor,  conservative  and  radical — any  phase  of  human 
nature  not  wholly  alien  to  his  own. 

This  I  conceive  to  be  the  principal  method  of  the  social 
psychologist. 

One  thing  which  this  broader  introspection  reveals  is 
that  the  "  I  "-consciousness  does  not  explicitly  appear 
until  the  child  is,  say,  about  two  years  old,  and  that  when 
it  does  appear  it  comes  in  inseparable  conjunction  with 
the  consciousness  of  other  persons  and  of  those  relations 
which  make  up  a  social  group.  It  is  in  fact  simply  one 
phase  of  a  body  of  personal  thought  which  is  self-con- 
sciousness in  one  aspect  and  social  consciousness  in  an- 
other. 

7 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

The  mental  experience  of  a  new-born  child  is  probably 
a  mere  stream  of  impressions,  which  may  be  regarded  as 
being  individual,  in  being  differentiated  from  any  other 
stream,  or  as  social,  in  being  an  undoubted  product  of 
inheritance  and  suggestion  from  human  hfe  at  large;  but 
is  not  aware  either  of  itself  or  of  society. 

Very  soon,  however,  the  mind  begins  to  discriminate 
personal  impressions  and  to  become  both  naively  self- 
conscious  and  naively  conscious  of  society;  that  is,  the 
child  is  aware,  in  an  unreflective  way,  of  a  group  and  of  his 
own  special  relation  to  it.  He  does  not  say  ''I''  nor  does 
he  name  his  mother,  his  sister  or  his  nurse,  but  he  has 
images  and  feelings  out  of  which  these  ideas  will  grow. 
Later  comes  the  more  reflective  consciousness  which 
names  both  himself  and  other  people,  and  brings  a  fuller 
perception  of  the  relations  which  constitute  the  unity  of 
this  small  world.* 

And  so  on  to  the  most  elaborate  phases  of  self-con- 
sciousness and  social  consciousness,  to  the  metaphysician 
pondering  the  Ego,  or  the  sociologist  meditating  on  the 
Social  Organism.     Self  and  society  go  together,  as  phases 

*  There  is  much  interest  and  significance  in  the  matter  of  chil- 
dren's first  learning  the  use  of  "I"  and  other  self-words — just  how 
they  learn  them  and  what  they  mean  by  them.  Some  discussion 
of  the  matter,  based  on  observation  of  two  children,  will  be  found 
in  Human  Nature  and  the  Social  Order;  and  more  recently  I  have 
published  a  paper  in  the  Psychological  Review  (November,  1908) 
called  A  Study  of  the  Early  Use  of  Self- Words  by  a  Child.  "  I " 
seems  to  mean  primarily  the  assertion  of  will  in  a  social  medium 
of  which  the  child  is  conscious  and  of  which  his  "  I "  is  an  insepa- 
rable part.  It  is  thus  a  social  idea  and,  as  stated  in  the  text,  arises 
by  differentiation  of  a  vague  body  of  personal  thought  which  is  self- 
consciousness  in  one  phase  and  social  consciousness  in  another 
It  has  no  necessary  reference  to  the  body. 

8 


SOCIAL  AND  INDIVIDUAL  ASPECTS  OF  MIND 

of  a  common  whole.  I  am  aware  of  the  social  groups  in 
which  I  live  as  immediately  and  authentically  as  I  am 
aware  of  myself;  and  Descartes  might  have  said  *'We 
think,"  cogitamus,  on  as  good  grounds  as  he  said  cogito. 

But,  it  may  be  said,  this  very  consciousness  that  you 
are  considering  is  after  all  located  in  a  particular  person, 
and  so  are  all  similar  consciousnesses,  so  that  what  we 
see,  if  we  take  an  objective  view  of  the  matter,  is  merely 
an  aggregate  of  individuals,  however  social  those  individ- 
uals may  be.  Common-sense,  most  people  think,  assures 
us  that  the  separate  person  is  the  primary  fact  of  life. 

If  so,  is  it  not  because  common-sense  has  been  trained 
by  custom  to  look  at  one  aspect  of  things  and  not  another  ? 
Common-sense,  moderately  informed,  assures  us  that  the 
individual  has  his  being  only  as  part  of  a  whole.  What 
does  not  come  by  heredity  comes  by  communication  and 
intercourse;  and  the  more  closely  we  look  the  more  ap- 
parent it  is  that  separateness  is  an  illusion  of  the  eye  and 
community  the  inner  truth.  *' Social  organism,"  using 
the  term  in  no  abstruse  sense  but  merely  to  mean  a  vital 
unity  in  human  life,  is  a  fact  as  obvious  to  enlightened 
common-sense  as  individuality. 

I  do  not  question  that  the  individual  is  a  differentiated 
centre  of  psychical  life,  having  a  world  of  his  own  into 
which  no  other  individual  can  fully  enter;  living  in  a 
stream  of  thought  in  which  there  is  nothing  quite  like  that 
in  any  other  stream,  neither  his  "I,"  nor  his  "you,"  nor 
his  "we,"  nor  even  any  material  object;  all,  probably, 
as  they  exist  for  him,  have  something  unique  about  them. 
But  this  uniqueness  is  no  more  apparent  and  verifiable 
than  the  fact — not  at  all  inconsistent  with  it — that  he  is 

9 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

in  the  fullest  sense  member  of  a  whole,  appearing  such 
not  only  to  scientific  observation  but  also  to  his  own  un- 
trained consciousness. 

There  is  then  no  mystery  about  social  consciousness. 
The  view  that  there  is  something  recondite  about  it  and 
that  it  must  be  dug  for  with  metaphysics  and  drawn  forth 
from  the  depths  of  speculation,  springs  from  a  failure  to 
grasp  adequately  the  social  nature  of  all  higher  conscious- 
ness. What  we  need  in  this  connection  is  only  a  better 
seeing  and  understanding  of  rather  ordinary  and  familiar 
facts. 

We  may  view  social  consciousness  either  in  a  particular 
mind  or  as  a  cooperative  activity  of  many  minds.  The 
social  ideas  that  I  have  are  closely  connected  with  those 
that  other  people  have,  and  act  and  react  upon  them  to 
form  a  whole.  This  gives  us  public  consciousness,  or  to  use 
a  more  familiar  term,  public  opinion,  in  the  broad  sense 
of  a  group  state  of  mind  which  is  more  or  less  distinctly 
aware  of  itself.  By  this  last  phrase  I  mean  such  a  mutual 
understanding  of  one  another's  points  of  view  on  the  part 
of  the  individuals  or  groups  concerned  as  naturally  results 
from  discussion.  There  are  all  degrees  of  this  awareness 
in  the  various  individuals.  Generally  speaking,  it  never 
embraces  the  whole  in  all  its  complexity,  but  almost  al- 
ways some  of  the  relations  that  enter  into  the  whole.  The 
more  intimate  the  communication  of  a  group  the  more 
complete,  the  more  thoroughly  knit  together  into  a  living 
whole,  is  its  public  consciousness. 

In  a  congenial  family  life,  for  example,  there  may  be 
a  public  consciousness  which  brings  all   the  important 

10 


SOCIAL  AND  INDIVIDUAL  ASPECTS  OF  MIND 

thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  members  into  such  a  living 
and  cooperative  v^hole.  In  the  mind  of  each  member, 
also,  this  same  thing  exists  as  a  social  consciousness  em- 
bracing a  vivid  sense  of  the  personal  traits  and  modes  of 
thought  and  feeling  of  the  other  members.  And,  finally, 
quite  inseparable  from  all  this,  is  each  one's  consciousness 
of  himself,  which  is  largely  a  direct  reflection  of  the  ideas 
about  himself  he  attributes  to  the  others,  and  is  directly 
or  indirectly  altogether  a  product  of  social  life.  Thus  all 
consciousness  hangs  together,  and  the  distinctions  are 
chiefly  based  on  point  of  view. 

Thejmity  of  pubHc  opinion,  Hke  all  vital  unity,  is  one 
not  of  agreement  but  of  organization,  of  interaction  and_ 
mutual  influence^  It  is  true  that  a  certain  underlying 
likeness  of  nature  is  necessary  in  order  that  minds  may 
influence  one  another  and  so  cooperate  in  forming  a 
rital  whole,  but  identity,  even  in  the  simplest  process,  is 
unnecessary  and  probably  impossible.  The  conscious- 
ness of  the  American  House  of  Representatives,  for  ex- 
ample, is  by  no  means  limited  to  the  common  views,  if  there 
are  any,  shared  by  its  members,  but  embraces  the  whole 
consciousness  of  every  member  so  far  as  this  deals  with 
the  activity  of  the  House.  It  would  be  a  poor  conception 
of  the  whole  which  left  out  the  opposition,  or  even  one 
dissentient  individual.  That  all  minds  are  different  is  a 
condition,  not  an  obstacle,  to  the  unity  that  consists  in 
a  differentiated  and  cooperative  life. 

Here  is  another  illustration  of  what  is  meant  by  indi- 
vidual and  collective  aspects  of  social  consciousness. 
Some  of  us  possess  a  good  many  books  relating  to  social 
questions  of  the  day.     Each  of  these  books,  considered  by 

11 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

itself,  Is  the  expression  of  a  particular  social  conscious- 
ness; the  author  has  cleared  up  his  ideas  as  well  as  he 
can  and  printed  them.  But  a  library  of  such  books  ex- 
presses social  consciousness  in  a  larger  sense;  it  speaks 
for  the  epoch.  And  certainly  no  one  who  reads  the  books 
will  doubt  that  they  form  a  whole,  whatever  their  differ- 
ences. The  radical  and  the  reactionist  are  clearly  part 
of  the  same  general  situation. 

There  are,  then,  at  least  three  aspects  of  consciousness 
which  we  may  usefully  distinguish:  self-consciousness, 
or  what  I  think  of  myself;  social  consciousness  (in  its  in- 
dividual aspect),  or  what  I  think  of  other  people;  and 
public  consciousness,  or  a  collective  view  of  the  foregoing 
as  organized  in  a  communicating  group.  And  all  three  are 
phases  of  a  single  whole. 


CHAPTER  II 

SOCIAL  AND  INDIVIDUAL  ASPECTS  OF  MIND-Continuec 

Moral  Aspect  of  the  Organic  View — It  Implies  that  Reform 
Should  Be  Based  on  Sympathy — Uses  of  Praise  and  Blame 
— Responsibility  Broadened  but  not  Lost — Moral  Valuf 
OF  A  Larger  View — Organic  Morality  Calls  for  Knowledge 
— Nature  of  Social  Organization. 

So  far  as  the  moral  aspect  is  concerned,  it  should  be 
the  result  of  this  organic  view  of  mind  to  make  the  whole 
teaching  and  practice  of  righteousness  more  rational  and 
effectual  by  bringing  it  closer  to  fact.  A  moral  view 
which  does  not  see  the  individual  in  living  unity  with  social 
wholes  is  unreal  and  apt  to  lead  to  impractical  results. 

Have  not  the  moral  philosophies  of  the  past  missed 
their  mark,  in  great  part,  by  setting  before  the  individual 
absolute  standards  of  behavior,  without  affording  him  an 
explanation  for  his  backwardness  or  a  programme  for  his 
gradual  advance  ?  And  did  not  this  spring  from  not  dis- 
cerning clearly  that  the  moral  life  was  a  social  organism, 
in  which  every  individual  or  group  of  individuals  had  its 
own  special  possibilities  and  limitations?  In  general 
such  systems,  pagan  and  Christian,  have  said,  "All  of 
us  ought  to  be  so  and  so,  but  since  very  few  of  us  are,  this 
is  evidently  a  bad  world."  And  they  have  had  no  large, 
well-organized,  slow-but-sure  plan  for  making  it  better. 
Impracticable  standards  have  the  same  ill  effect  as  unen- 
forcible  law;  they  accustom  us  to  separate  theory  from 
practice  and  make  a  chasm  between  the  individual  and 
the  moral  ideal. 

13 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

TI18  present  way  of  thinking  tends  to  close  up  this 
chasm  and  bring  both  persons  and  ideals  into  more  in- 
telligible relations  to  real  life.  The  sins  or  virtues  of  the 
inc^idual,  it  seems,  are  never  fortuitous  or  disconnected; 
they  have  always  a  history  and  collateral  support,  and  are 
in  ^act  more  or  less  pleasing  phases  of  a  struggling,  as- 
piring whole.  The  ideals  are  also  parts  of  the  whole; 
states  of  being,  achieved  momentarily  by  those  in  front 
and  treasured  for  the  animation  and  solace  of  all.  And 
the  method  of  righteousness  is  to  understand  as  well  as 
may  be  the  working  of  this  whole  and  of  all  its  parts,  and 
to  form  and  pursue  practicable  ideals  based  on  this  under- 
standing. It  is  always  to  be  taken  for  granted  that  there 
is  no  real  break  with  history  and  environment.  Each 
individual  may  be  required  to  put  forth  a  steadfast  en- 
deavor to  make  himself  and  his  surroundings  better,  but 
not  to  achieve  a  standard  unconnected  with  his  actual 
state.  And  the  same  principle  applies  to  special  groups 
of  all  sorts,  including  nations,  races,  and  religions;  their 
progress  must  be  along  a  natural  line  of  improvement  sug- 
gested by  what  they  are.  We  are  thus  coming  under  the 
sway  of  that  relative  spirit,  of  which,  says  Walter  Pater, 
"  the  ethical  result  is  a  delicate  and  tender  justice  in  the 
criticism  of  human  life."  * 

According  to  this,  real  reform  must  be  sympathetic;  that 
is,  it  must  begin,  not  with  denunciation — though  that 
may  havejts_uses — but  with  an  intimate  appreciation  of 
things  as  they  are,  and_should  proceed  in  a  spirit  opposite 
to  that  in  which  we  have_commonly  attacked  such  ques* 

*  See  his  essay  on  Coleridge. 
U 


SOCIAL  AND  INDIVIDUAL  ASPECTS  OF  MIND 

tions  as  the  suppression  of  intemperance  and  the  con- 
version  of  the  heathen. 

Human  nature,  it  appears,  is  very  much  the  same  in 
those  we  reckon  sinners  as  in  ourselves.  Good  and  evil 
are  always  intimately  bound  up  together;  no  sort  of  men 
are  chiefly  given  over  to  conscious  badness;  and  to  abuse 
men  or  groups  in  the  large  is  unjust  and  generally  futile. 
As  a  rule  the  practical  method  is  to  study  closely  and 
kindly  the  actual  situation,  with  the  people  involved  in 
it;  then  gradually  and  carefully  to  work  out  the  evil  from 
the  mixture  by  substituting  good  for  it.  No  matter  how 
mean  or  hideous  a  man^s  life js^the^rst_thing  is^to  under- 
stand  him;  to  make  out  just  how  it  is  Jhat  our  common 
human  nature  has  come  to  work  out  in  this  way.  This 
method  calls  for  patience,  insight,  firmness,  and  confi- 
dence in  men,  leaving  little  room  for  the  denunciatory 
egotism  of  a  certain  kind  of  reformers^  It  is  more  and 
more  coming  to  be  used  in  dealing  with  intemperance, 
crime,  greed,  and  in  fact  all  those  matters  in  which  ws 
try  to  make  ourselves  and  our  neighbors  better.  I  notice 
that  the  most  effectual  leaders  of  philanthropy  have 
almost  ceased  from  denunciation.  Tacitly  assuming  that 
there  are  excuses  for  everything,  they  "shun  the  negative 
side"  and  spend  their  energy  in  building  up  the  affirmative. 

This  sort  of  morality  does  not,  however,  dispense  with 
praise  and  blame,  which  are  based  on  the  necessity  of  up- 
holding higher  ideals  by  example,  and  discrediting  lower 
ones.  All  such  distinctions  get  their  meaning  from  their 
relation  to  an  upward-striving  general  life,  wherein  con- 
spicuous men  serve  as  symbols  through  which  the  higher 

15 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

structure  may  be  either  supported  or  undermined.  We 
must  have  heroes,  and  perhaps  villains  (though  it  ia  bet* 
ter  not  to  think  much  about  the  latter),  even  though  their 
performances,  when  closely  viewed,  appear  to  be  an 
equally  natural  product  of  history  and  environment.  In 
short  it  makes  a  differ'^'^ce  whether  we  judge  a  man  with 
reference  to  his  special  history  and  *' lights,"  or  to  the 
larger  life  of  the  world;  and  it  is  right  to  assign  exemplary 
praise  or  blame  on  the  latter  ground  which  would  be  un- 
warranted on  the  former.  There  is  certainly  a  special 
right  for  every  man;  but  the  right  of  most  men  is  partial, 
important  chiefly  to  themselves  and  their  immediate 
sphere;  while  there  are  some  whose  right  is  representative, 
like  that  of  Jesus,  fit  to  guide  the  moral  thought  of  man- 
kind; and  we  cherish  and  revere  these  latter  because  they 
corroborate  the  ideals  we  wish  to  hold  before  us. 

It  matters  little  for  these  larger  purposes  whether  the 
sins  or  virtues  of  conspicuous  persons  are  conscious  or 
not;  our  concern  is  with  what  they  stand  for  in  the  gen- 
eral mind.  In  fact  conscious  wickedness  is  compara- 
tively unimportant,  because  it  impHes  that  the  individual 
is  divided  in  his  own  mind,  and  therefore  weak.  The 
most  effective  ill-doers  believe  in  themselves  and  have  a 
quiet  conscience.  And,  in  the  same  way,  goodness  is 
most  effectual  when  it  takes  itself  as  a  matter  of  course 
and  feels  no  self-complacency. 

Blame  and  punishment,  then,  are  essentially  symbolic, 
their  function  being  to  define  and  enforce  the  public  will, 
and  in  no  way  imply  that  the  offenders  are  of  a  different 
nature  from  the  rest  of  us.  We  feel  it  to  be  true  that  with 
a  little  different  training  and  surroundings  we  might  have 

16 


SOCIAL  AND   INDIVIDUAL  ASPECTS  OF  MIND 

committed  almost  any  crime  for  which  men  are  sent  to 
prison,  and  can  readily  understand  that  criminals  should 
not  commonly  feel  that  they  are  worse  than  others.  The 
same  principle  applies  to  those  malefactors,  more  danger- 
ous perhaps,  who  keep  within  the  law,  and  yet  are  terribly 
punished  from  time  to  time  by  public  opinion. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  well  if  both  those  who  suffer  pun- 
ishment and  those  who  inflict  it  were  more  distinctly  aware 
of  its  symbolic  character  and  function.  The  former 
might  find  their  sense  of  justice  appeased  by  perceiving 
that  though  what  they  did  was  natural  and  perhaps  not 
consciously  wrong,  it  may  still  need  to  be  discredited  and 
atoned  for.  The  culprit  is  not  separated  from  society 
by  his  punishment,  but  restored  to  it.  It  is  his  way  of 
service;  and  if  he  takes  it  in  the  right  spirit  he  is  better 
off  than  those  who  do  wrong  but  are  not  punished. 

The  rest  of  us,  on  the  other  hand,  might  realize  that 
those  in  the  pillory  are  our  representatives,  who  suffer, 
in  a  real  sense,  for  us.  This  would  disincline  us  to  spend 
in  a  cheap  abuse  of  conspicuous  offenders  that  moral 
ardor  whose  proper  function  is  the  correction  of  our  own 
life.  The  spectacle  of  punishment  is  not  for  us  to  gloat  over, 
but  to  remind  us  of  our  sins,  which,  as  springing  from  the 
same  nature  and  society,  are  sure  to  be  much  the  same  as 
that  of  the  one  punished.  It  is  precisely  because  he  is  like 
us  that  he  is  punished.  If  he  were  radically  different  he 
would  belong  in  an  insane  asylum,  and  punishment  would 
be  mere  cruelty. 

Under  the  larger  view  of  mind  responsibility  is  broadened, 
because  we  recognize  a  broader  reach  of  causation,  but 

37 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

by  no  means  lost  in  an  abstract  "society."  It  goes  with 
power  and  increases  rapidly  in  proportion  as  the  evil  comes 
nearer  the  sphere  of  the  individual's  voluntary  action, 
so  that  each  of  us  is  peculiarly  responsible  for  the  moral 
state  of  his  own  trade,  family,  or  social  connection.  Con- 
trary to  a  prevalent  impression,  it  is  in  these  familiar  re- 
lations that  the  individual  is  least  of  all  justified  in  being 
no  better  than  his  environment. 

Every  act  of  the  will,  especially  where  the  will  is  most 
at  home,  should  be  affirmative  and  constructive;  it  being 
the  function  and  meaning  of  individuality  that  each  one 
should  be,  in  the  direction  of  his  chief  activities,  some- 
thing other  and  better  than  his  surroundings.  Once 
admit  the  plea  *'  I  may  do  what  other  people  do,"  and  the 
basis  of  righteousness  is  gone;  perhaps  there  is  no  moral 
fallacy  so  widespread  and  so  pernicious  as  this.  It  is 
these  no-worse-than-other-people  decisions  that  paralyze 
the  moral  life  in  the  one  and  in  the  whole,  involving  a  sort 
of  moral  panmixia,  as  the  biologists  say,  which,  lacking 
any  progressive  impulse,  must  result  in  deterioration.  In 
the  end  it  will  justify  anything,  since  there  are  always 
bad  examples  to  fall  back  upon. 

It  is  commonly  futile,  however,  to  require  any  sharp 
break  with  the  past;  we  must  be  content  with  an  upward 
endeavor  and  tendency.  It  is  quite  true  that  we  are  all 
involved  in  a  net  of  questionable  practices  from  which  we 
can  only  escape  a  little  at  a  time  and  in  cooperation  with 
our  associates. 

It  is  an  error  to  imagine  that  the  doctrine  of  individual 
responsibility  is  always  the  expedient  and  edifying  one 

18 


SOCIAL  AND  INDIVIDUAL  ASPECTS  OF  MIND 

in  matters  of  conduct.  There  is  a  sort  of  people  who  gro\f 
indignant  whenever  general  causes  are  insisted  upon, 
apparently  convinced  that  whether  these  are  real  or  not 
it  is  immoral  to  believe  in  them.  But  it  is  not  invariably 
a  good  thing  to  urge  the  will,  since  this,  if  overstimulated, 
becomes  fagged,  stale,  and  discouraged.  Often  it  is  better 
that  one  should  let  himself  go,  and  trust  himself  to  the 
involuntary  forces,  to  the  nature  of  things,  to  God.  The 
nervous  or  strained  person  only  harasses  and  weakens 
his  will  by  fixing  attention  upon  it:  it  will  work  on  more 
effectually  if  he  looks  away  from  it,  calming  himself  by 
a  view  of  the  larger  whole;  and  not  without  reason 
Spinoza  counts  among  the  advantages  of  determinism 
"  the  attainment  of  happiness  by  man  through  realizing  his 
intimate  union  with  the  whole  nature  of  things;  the  dis- 
tinction between  things  in  our  power  and  things  not  in 
our  power;  the  avoidance  of  all  disturbing  passions,  and 
the  performance  of  social  duties  from  rational  desire  for  the 
common  good.*'* 

An  obvious  moral  defect  of  the  unbalanced  doctrine  of 
responsibility  is  that  it  permits  the  successful  to  despise 
the  unfortunate,  in  the  belief  that  the  latter  *'have  only 
themselves  to  blame,"  a  belief  not  countenanced  by  the 
larger  view  of  fact.  We  may  pardon  this  doctrine  when 
it  makes  one  too  hard  on  himself  or  on  successful  wrong- 
doers, but  as  a  rod  with  which  to  beat  those  already  down 
it  is  despicable. 

The  annals  of  religion  show  that  the  moral  life  has 

always  these  two  aspects,  the  particular  and  the  general, 

as  in  the  doctrines  of  freedom  and  predestination,  or  in 

*  Pollock's  Spinoza,  2d  ed.,  195. 

19 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

the  wrestlings  with  sin  followed  by  self-abandonment  that 
we  find  in  the  literature  of  conversion.*  Perhaps  we  may 
say  that  the  deterministic  attitude  is  morally  good  in  at 
least  two  classes  of  cases:  First,  for  nervous,  conscien- 
tious individuals,  like  Spinoza,  whose  wills  need  rathe 
calming  than  stimulating,  also  for  any  one  who  may  be 
even  temporarily  in  a  state  of  mental  strain;  second,  in 
dealing  on  a  large  scale  with  social  or  moral  questions 
whose  causes  must  be  treated  dispassionately  and  in  a 
mass. 

These  questions  of  free-will  versus  law,  and  the  like, 
are  but  little,  if  at  all,  questions  of  fact — when  we  get 
down  to  definite  facts  bearing  upon  the  matter  we  find 
litde  or  no  disagreement — but  of  point  of  view  and  em- 
phasis. If  you  fix  attention  on  the  individual  phase  of 
things  and  see  life  as  a  theatre  of  personal  action,  then  the 
corresponding  ideas  of  private  will,  responsibility,  praise, 
and  blame  rise  before  you;  if  you  regard  its  total  aspect 
you  see  tendency,  evolution,  law  and  impersonal  grandeur. 
Each  of  these  is  a  half  truth  needing  to  be  completed  by 
the  other;  the  larger  truth,  including  both,  being  that  life 
is  an  organic  whole,  presenting  itself  with  equal  reality 
in  individual  and  general  aspects.  Argument  upon  such 
questions  is  without  limit — since  there  is  really  nothing 

*  Amply  expounded,  with  due  stress  on  the  moral  value  of  letting- 
go,  by  William  James,  in  his  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience: 
"This  abandonment  of  self-responsibility  seems  to  be  the  funda- 
mental act  in  specifically  religious,  as  distinguished  from  moral 
practice.  It  antedates  theologies  and  is  independent  of  phibsophiea 
...  it  is  capable  of  entering  into  closest  marriage  with  every 
apeculative  creed."    Page  289. 

20 


SOCIAL  AND  INDIVIDUAL  ASPECTS  OF  MIND 

at  issue — and  in  that  sense  the  problem  of  freedom  versus 
law  is  insoluble. 


Above  all,  the  organic  view  of  mind  calls  for  social 
knowledge  as  the  basis  of  morality.  We  live  in  a  system, 
and  to  achieve  right  ends,  or  any  rational  ends  whatever, 
we  must  learn  to  understand  that  system.  The  public 
mind  must  emerge  somewhat  from  its  subconscious  con- 
dition and  know  and  guide  its  own  processes. 

Both  consciously  and  unconsciously  the  larger  mind  is 
continually  building  itself  up  into  wholes — fashions,  tra- 
ditions, institutions,  tendencies,  and  the  like — which  spread 
and  diversify  like  the  branches  of  a  tree,  and  so  generate 
an  ever  higher  and  more  various  structure  of  differentiated 
thought  and  symbols.  The  immediate  motor  and  guide 
of  this  growth  is  interest,  and  wherever  that  points  social 
structure  comes  into  being,  as  a  picture  grows  where  the 
artist  moves  his  pencil.  Visible  society  is,  indeed,  liter- 
ally, a  work  of  art,  slow  and  mostly  subconscious  in  its 
production — as  great  art  often  is — full  of  grotesque  and 
wayward  traits,  but  yet  of  inexhaustible  beauty  and  fasci- 
nation. It  is  this  we  find  in  the  history  of  old  civilizations, 
getting  from  it  the  completed  work  of  the  artist  without 
that  strain  and  confusion  of  production  which  defaces  the 
present.  We  get  it,  especially,  not  from  the  history  of  the 
theorist  or  the  statistician,  but  from  the  actual,  naive 
human  record  to  be  found  in  memoirs,  in  popular  liter- 
ature, in  architecture,  painting,  sculpture,  and  music,  in 
the  industrial  arts,  in  every  unforced  product  of  the  mind. 

Social  organization  is  nothing  less  than  this  variega- 

21 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

tion  of  life,  taken  ir  the  widest  sense  possible.  It  should 
not  be  conceived  as  the  product  merely  of  definite  and 
utilitarian  purpose,  but  as  the  total  expression  of  conscious 
and  subconscious  tendency,  the  slow  crystallization  in 
many  forms  and  colors  of  the  life  of  the  human  spirit. 

Any  fairly  distinct  and  durable  detail  of  this  structure 
may  be  called  a  social  type;  this  being  a  convenient  term 
to  use  when  we  wish  to  break  up  the  whole  into  parts, 
for  analysis  or  description.  Thus  there  are  types  of 
personality,  of  political  structure,  of  religion,  of  classes,  of 
the  family,  of  art,  of  language;  also  of  processes,  like  com- 
munication, cooperation,  and  competition;  and  so  on. 
The  whole  is  so  various  that  from  every  new  point  of 
view  new  forms  are  revealed.  Social  types  are  analogous 
to  the  genera,  species,  and  varieties  of  the  animal  world, 
in  being  parts  of  one  living  whole  and  yet  having  a  relative 
continuity  and  distinctness  which  is  susceptible  of  de- 
tailed study.  Like  biological  types,  also,  they  exist  in 
related  systems  and  orders,  are  subject  to  variation,  com- 
pete with  one  another,  flourish  and  decay,  may  be  flex- 
ible or  rigid,  and  may  or  may  not  form  prolific  crosses 
with  one  another. 

Without  forgetting  to  see  life  as  individuals,  we  must 
learn  to  see  it  also  as  types,  processes,  organization,  the 
latter  being  just  as  real  as  the  former.  And  especially, 
in  order  to  see  the  matter  truly,  should  we  be  able  to  in- 
terpret individuals  by  wholes,  and  vice  versa. 


22 


CHAPTER  III 

PRIMARY  GROUPS 

Meaning  of  Primary  Groups — Family,  Playground,  and  Neigh< 
BORHOOD — How  Far  Influenced  by  Larger  Society — Mean- 
ing AND  Permanence  of  "Human  Nature" — Primary 
Groups  the  Nursery  of  Human  Nature. 

By  primary  groups  I  mean  those  characterized  by  inti- 
mate face-to-face  association  and  cooperation.  They  are 
primary  in  several  senses,  but  chiefly  in  that  they  are 
fundamental  in  forming  the  social  nature  and  ideals  of 
the  individual.  The  result  of  intimate  association,  psycho- 
logically, is  a  certain  fusion  of  individualities  in  a  common 
whole,  so  that  one's  very  self,  for  many  purposes  at  least, 
is  the  common  Hfe  and  purpose  of  the  group.  Perhaps  the 
simplest  way  of  describing  this  wholeness  is  by  saying  that 
it  is  a  *'we'';  it  involves  the  sort  of  sympathy  and  mutual 
identification  for  which  "we"  is  the  natural  expression. 
One  lives  in  the  feeling  of  the  whole  and  finds  the  chief 
aims  of  his  will  in  that  feeling. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  unity  of  the  primary 
group  is  one  of  mere  harmony  and  love.  It  is  always  a 
differentiated  and  usually  a  competitive  unity,  admitting  of 
self-assertion  and  various  appropriative  passions;  but 
these  passions  are  socialized  by  sympathy,  and  come,  or 
tend  to  come,  under  the  discipline  of  a  common  spirit. 
The  individual  will  be  ambitious,  but  the  chief  object  of 

23 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

his  ambition  will  be  some  desired  place  In  the  thought  of 
the  others,  and  he  will  feel  allegiance  to  common  standards 
of  service  and  fair  play.  So  the  boy  will  dispute  with  his 
fellows  a  place  on  the  team,  but  above  such  disputes  will 
place  the  common  glory  of  his  class  and  school. 

The  most  important  spheres  of  this  intimate  association 
and  cooperation — though  by  no  means  the  only  ones — are 
the  family,  the  play-group  of  children,  and  the  neighbor* 
hood  or  community  group  of  elders.  These  are  practi- 
cally universal,  belonging  to  all  times  and  all  stages  of  de- 
velopment; and  are  accordingly  a  chief  basis  of  what  is 
universal  in  human  nature  and  human  ideals.  The  best 
comparative  studies  of  the  family,  such  as  those  of  Wester- 
marck*  or  Howard, f  show  it  to  us  as  not  only  a  universal 
institution,  but  as  more  alike  the  world  over  than  the 
exaggeration  of  exceptional  customs  by  an  earlier  school 
had  led  us  to  suppose.  Nor  can  any  one  doubt  the  general 
prevalence  of  play-groups  among  children  or  of  informal 
assemblies  of  various  kinds  among  their  elders.  Such 
association  is  clearly  the  nursery  of  human  nature  in  the 
world  about  us,  and  there  is  no  apparent  reason  to  suppose 
that  the  case  has  anywhere  or  at  any  time  been  essentially 
different. 

As  regards  play,  I  might,  were  it  not  a  matter  of  common 
observation,  multiply  Illustrations  of  the  universality  and 
spontaneity  of  the  group  discussion  and  cooperation  to 
which  it  gives  rise.  The  general  fact  is  that  children,  es- 
pecially boys  after  about  their  twelfth  year,  live  in  fellow- 

*  The  History  of  Human  Marriage. 

f  A  History  of  Matrimonial  Institutions. 

24 


PRIMARY  GROUPS 

ships  in  which  their  sympathy,  ambition  and  honor  are 
engaged  even  more,  often,  than  they  are  in  the  family. 
Most  of  us  can  recall  examples  of  the  endurance  by  boys 
of  injustice  and  even  cruelty,  rather  than  appeal  from 
their  fellows  to  parents  or  teachers — as,  for  instance,  in 
the  hazing  so  prevalent  at  schools,  and  so  difficult,  for  this 
very  reason,  to  repress.  And  how  elaborate  the  discussion, 
how  cogent  the  public  opinion,  how  hot  the  ambitions  in 
these  fellowships. 

Nor  is  this  facility  of  juvenile  association,  as  is  some- 
times supposed,  a  trait  peculiar  to  English  and  American 
boys;  since  experience  among  our  immigrant  population 
seems  to  show  that  the  offspring  of  the  more  restrictive 
civilizations  of  the  continent  of  Europe  form  self-governing 
play-groups  with  almost  equal  readiness.  Thus  Miss  Jane 
Addams,  after  pointing  out  that  the  "gang'*  is  almost 
universal,  speaks  of  the  interminable  discussion  which 
every  detail  of  the  gang's  activity  receives,  remarking 
that  "in  these  social  folk-motes,  so  to  speak,  the  young 
citizen  learns  to  act  upon  his  own  determination."* 

Of  the  neighborhood  group  it  may  be  said,  in  general, 
that  from  the  time  men  formed  permanent  settlements 
upon  the  land,  down,  at  least,  to  the  rise  of  modern  in- 
dustrial cities,  it  has  played  a  main  part  in  the  primary, 
heart-to-heart  life  of  the  people.  Among  our  Teutonic 
forefathers  the  village  community  was  apparently  the 
chief  sphere  of  sympathy  and  mutual  aid  for  the  commons 
all  through  the  "dark"  and  middle  ages,  and  for  many 
purposes  it  remains  so  in  rural  districts  at  the  present  day. 
In  some  countries  we  still  find  it  with  all  its  ancient  vi* 
*  Newer  Ideals  of  Peace,  177. 
25 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

lality,  notably  in  Russia,  where  the  mir,  or  self-governing 
village  group,  is  the  main  theatre  of  life,  along  with  the 
family,  for  perhaps  fifty  millions  of  peasants. 

In  our  own  life  the  intimacy  of  the  neighborhood  has 
been  broken  up  by  the  growth  of  an  intricate  mesh  of 
wider  contacts  which  leaves  us  strangers  to  people  who 
live  in  the  same  house.  And  even  in  the  country  the  same 
principle  is  at  work,  though  less  obviously,  diminishing 
our  economic  and  spiritual  community  with  our  neigh- 
bors. How  far  this  change  is  a  healthy  development,  and 
how  far  a  disease,  is  perhaps  still  uncertain. 

Besides  these  almost  universal  kinds  of  primary  asso- 
ciation, there  are  many  others  whose  form  depends  upon 
the  particular  state  of  civilization;  the  only  essential  thing, 
as  I  have  said,  being  a  certain  intimacy  and  fusion  of 
personalities.  In  our  own  society,  being  little  bound  by 
place,  people  easily  form  clubs,  fraternal  societies  and  the 
like,  based  on  congeniality,  which  may  give  rise  to  real 
intimacy.  Many  such  relations  are  formed  at  school  and 
college,  and  among  men  and  women  brought  together  in 
the  first  instance  by  their  occupations — as  workmen  in  the 
same  trade,  or  the  like.  Where  there  is  a  little  common 
interest  and  activity,  kindness  grows  like  weeds  by  the 
roadside. 

But  the  fact  that  the  family  and  neighborhood  groups 
are  ascendant  in  the  open  and  plastic  time  of  childhood 
makes  them  even  now  incomparably  more  influential 
than  all  the  rest. 

Primary  groups  are  primary  in  the  sense  that  they 
give  the  individual  his  earliest  and  completest  experience 

26 


PRIMARY  GROUPS 

of  social  unity,  and  also  in  the  sense  that  they  do  not  change 
in  the  same  degree  as  more  elaborate  relations,  but  form  a 
comparatively  permanent  source  out  of  which  the  latter  are 
ever  springing.  Of  course  they  are  not  independent  of  the 
larger  society,  but  to  some  extent  reflect  its  spirit;  as  the 
German  family  and  the  German  school  bear  somewhat  dis- 
tinctly  the  print  of  German  militarism.  But  this,  after  all,  is 
like  the  tide  setting  back  into  creeks,  and  does  not  commonly 
go  very  far.  Among  the  German,  and  still  more  among 
the  Russian,  peasantry  are  found  habits  of  free  cooperation 
and  discussion  almost  uninfluenced  by  the  character  of 
the  state;  and  it  is  a  familiar  and  well-supported  view  that 
the  village  commune,  self-governing  as  regards  local  af- 
fairs and  habituated  to  discussion,  is  a  very  widespread 
institution  in  settled  communities,  and  the  continuator 
of  a  similar  autonomy  previously  existing  in  the  clan. 
"It  is  man  who  makes  monarchies  and  establishes  re- 
publics, but  the  commune  seems  to  come  directly  from 
the  hand  of  God."* 

In  our  own  cities  the  crowded  tenements  and  the  gen- 
eral economic  and  social  confusion  have  sorely  wounded 
the  family  and  the  neighborhood,  but  it  is  remarkable,  in 
view  of  these  conditions,  what  vitality  they  show;  and 
there  is  nothing  upon  which  the  conscience  of  the  time  is 
more  determined  than  upon  restoring  them  to  health. 

These  groups,  then,  are  springs  of  life,  not  only  for  the 
individual  but  for  social  institutions.  They  are  only  in 
part  moulded  by  special  traditions,  and,  in  larger  degree, 
express  a  universal  nature.  The  religion  or  government 
of  other  civilizations  may  seem  alien  to  us,  but  the  chil- 
*  De  Tocqueville,  Democracy  in  America,  vol.  i,  chap.  5. 

21 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

dren  or  the  family  group  wear  the  common  Hfe,  and  with 
them  we  can  always  make  ourselves  at  home. 

By  human  nature,  I  suppose,  we  may  understand  those 
sentiments  and  impulses  that  are  human  in  being  supe- 
rior to  those  of  lower  animals,  and  also  in  the  sense  that 
they  belong  to  mankind  at  large,  and  not  to  any  particular 
race  or  time.  It  means,  particularly,  sympathy  and  the 
innumerable  sentiments  into  which  sympathy  enters,  such 
as  love,  resentment,  ambition,  vanity,  hero-worship,  and 
the  feeling  of  social  right  and  wrong.* 

Human  nature  in  this  sense  is  justly  regarded  as  a  com- 
paratively permanent  element  in  society.  Always  and 
everywhere  men  seek  honor  and  dread  ridicule,  defer  to 
public  opinion,  cherish  their  goods  and  their  children,  and 
admire  courage,  generosity,  and  success.  It  is  always 
safe  to  assume  that  people  are  and  have  been  human. 

It  is  true,  no  doubt,  that  there  are  differences  of  race 
capacity,  so  great  that  a  large  part  of  mankind  are  possi- 
bly incapable  of  any  high  kind  of  social  organization. 
But  these  differences,  like  those  among  individuals  of 
the  same  race,  are  subtle,  depending  upon  some  obscure 
intellectual  deficiency,  some  want  of  vigor,  or  slackness 
of  moral  fibre,  and  do  not  involve  unlikeness  in  the  generic 
impulses  of  human  nature.  In  these  all  races  are  very 
much  alike.  The  more  insight  one  gets  into  the  life  of 
savages,  even  those  that  are  reckoned  the  lowest,  the  more 
human,  the  more  like  ourselves,  they  appear.  Take  for 
instance  the  natives  of  Central  Australia,  as  described 

*  These  matters  are  expounded  at  some  length  in  the  writer's 
Human  Nature  and  the  Social  Order. 

28 


PRIMARY  GROUPS 

by  Spencer  and  Gillen,*  tribes  having  no  definite  govern- 
ment or  worship  and  scarcely  able  to  count  to  five.  They 
are  generous  to  one  another,  emulous  of  virtue  as  they 
understand  it,  kind  to  their  cliildren  and  to  the  aged,  and 
by  no  means  harsh  to  women.  Their  faces  as  shown  in 
the  photographs  are  wholly  human  and  many  of  them  at- 
tractive. 

And  when  we  come  to  a  comparison  between  different 
stages  in  the  development  of  the  same  race,  between  our- 
selves, for  instance,  and  the  Teutonic  tribes  of  the  time 
of  Csesar,  the  difference  is  neither  in  human  nature  nor 
in  capacity,  but  in  organization,  in  the  range  and  com- 
plexity of  relations,  in  the  diverse  expression  of  powers 
and  passions  essentially  much  the  same. 

There  is  no  better  proof  of  this  generic  likeness  of 
human  nature  than  in  the  ease  and  joy  with  which  the 
modern  man  makes  himself  at  home  in  literature  depicting 
the  most  remote  and  varied  phases  of  life — in  Homer,  in 
the  Nibelung  tales,  in  the  Hebrew  Scriptures,  in  the 
legends  of  the  American  Indians,  in  stories  of  frontier 
life,  of  soldiers  and  sailors,  of  criminals  and  tramps,  and 
so  on.  The  more  penetratingly  any  phase  of  human  life 
is  studied  the  more  an  essential  likeness  to  ourselves  is  re- 
vealed. 

To  return  to  primary  groups:  the  view  here  main- 
tained is  that  human  nature  is  not  something  existing 
separately  in  the  individual,  but  a  group-nature  or  primary 
phase  of  society,  a  relatively  simple  and  general  condition 

*  The  Native  Tribes  of  Central  Australia.  Compare  also  Dar- 
win's views  and  examples  given  in  chap.  7  of  his  Descent  of  Man. 

29 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

of  the  social  mind.  It  is  something  more,  on  the  one  hand, 
than  the  mere  instinct  that  is  born  in  us — though  that 
enters  into  it — and  something  less,  on  the  other,  than  the 
more  elaborate  development  of  ideas  and  sentiments 
that  makes  up  institutions.  It  is  the  nature  which  is  de- 
veloped and  expressed  in  those  simple,  face-to-face 
groups  that  are  somewhat  alike  in  all  societies;  groups  of 
the  family,  the  playground,  and  the  neighborhood.  In 
the  essential  similarity  of  these  is  to  be  found  the  basis, 
in  experience,  for  similar  ideas  and  sentiments  in  the  human 
mind.  In  these,  everywhere,  human  nature  comes  Into 
existence.  Man  does  not  have  it  at  birth;  he  cannot  ac- 
quire it  except  through  fellowship,  and  it  decays  in  iso- 
lation. 

If  this  view  does  not  recommend  Itself  to  common- 
sense  I  do  not  know  that  elaboration  will  be  of  much 
avail.  It  simply  means  the  application  at  this  point  of 
the  idea  that  society  and  individuals  are  inseparable 
phases  of  a  common  whole,  so  that  wherever  we  find  an 
individual  fact  we  may  look  for  a  social  fact  to  go  with  it. 
If  there  is  a  universal  nature  in  persons  there  must  be 
something  universal  in  association  to  correspond  to  it. 

What  else  can  human  nature  be  than  a  trait  of  primary 
groups?  Surely  not  an  attribute  of  the  separate  indi- 
vidual— supposing  there  were  any  such  thing — since  its 
(typical  characteristics,  such  as  affection,  ambition,  vanity, 
and  resentment,  are  inconceivable  apart  from  society. 
If  it  belongs,  then,  to  man  in  association,  what  kind  or 
degree  of  association  is  required  to  develop  it  ?  Evidently 
nothing  elaborate,  because  elaborate  phases  of  society  are 
transient  and  diverse,  while  human  nature  is  compara- 

m 


PRIMARY  GROUPS 

lively  stable  and  universal.  In  short  the  family  and  neigh- 
borhood life  is  essential  to  its  genesis  and  nothing  more  is. 
Here  as  everywhere  in  the  study  of  society  we  must 
learn  to  see  mankind  in  psychical  wholes,  rather  than  in 
artificial  separation.  We  must  see  and  feel  the  communal 
life  of  family  and  local  groups  as  immediate  facts,  not  as 
combinations  of  something  else.  And  perhaps  we  shall 
do  this  best  by  recalling  our  own  experience  and  extend- 
ing it  through  sympathetic  observation.  What,  in  our 
life,  is  the  family  and  the  fellowship;  what  do  we  know 
of  the  we-feeling  ?  Thought  of  this  kind  may  help  us  to 
get  a  concrete  perception  of  that  primary  group-nature  of 
which  everything  social  is  the  outgrowth. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PRIMARY  IDEALS 

Nature  of  Primary  Idealism — The  Ideal  of  a  "We"  or  Moral 
Unity — It  Does  not  Exclude  Self-Assertion — Ideals 
Springing  from  Hostility — Loyalty,  Truth,  Service — 
Kindness — Lawfulness — Freedom — The  Doctrine  of  Nat- 
ural Right — Bearing  of  Primary  Idealism  upon  Education 
AND  Philanthropy. 

Life  in  the  primary  groups  gives  rise  to  social  ideals 
which,  as  they  spring  from  similar  experiences,  have  much 
in  common  throughout  the  human  race.  And  these  natu- 
rally become  the  motive  and  test  of  social  progress.  Under 
all  systems  men  strive,  however  blindly,  to  realize  objects 
suggested  by  the  familiar  experience  of  primary  association. 

Where  do  we  get  our  notions  of  love,  freedom,  justice, 
and  the  like  which  we  are  ever  applying  to  social  institu- 
tions? Not  from  abstract  philosophy,  surely,  but  from 
the  actual  life  of  simple  and  widespread  forms  of  society, 
like  the  family  or  the  play-group.  In  these  relations 
mankind  realizes  itself,  gratifies  its  primary  needs,  in  a 
fairly  satisfactory  manner,  and  from  the  experience  forms 
standards  of  what  it  is  to  expect  from  more  elaborate 
association.  Since  groups  of  this  sort  are  never  obliterated 
from  human  experience,  but  flourish  more  or  less  under 
all  kinds  of  institutions,  they  remain  an  enduring  criterion 
by  which  the  latter  are  ultimately  judged. 

Of  course  these  simpler  relations  are  not  uniform  foi 

32 


PRIMARY  IDEALS 

all  societies,  but  vary  considerably  with  race,  with  the 
general  state  of  civilization,  and  with  the  particular  sort 
of  institutions  that  may  prevail.  The  primary  groups 
themselves  are  subject  to  improvement  and  decay,  and 
need  to  be  watched  and  cherished  with  a  very  special  care. 
Neither  is  it  claimed  that,  at  the  best,  they  realize  ideal 
conditions;  only  that  they  approach  them  more  nearly 
than  anything  else  in  general  experience,  and  so  form  the 
practical  basis  on  which  higher  imaginations  are  built. 
They  are  not  always  pleasant  or  righteous,  but  they  al- 
most always  contain  elements  from  which  ideals  of  pleas- 
antness and  righteousness  may  be  formed. 

The  ideal  that  grows  up  in  familiar  association  may  be 
said  to  be  a  part  of  human  nature  itself.  In  its  most 
general  form  it  is  that  of  a  moral  whole  or  community 
wherein  individual  minds  are  merged  and  the  higher 
capacities  of  the  members  find  total  and  adequate  ex- 
pression. And  It  grows  up  because  familiar  association 
fills  our  minds  with  imaginations  of  the  thought  and  feel- 
ing of  other  members  of  the  group,  and  of  the  group  as 
a  whole,  so  that,  for  many  purposes,  we  really  make  them 
a  part  of  ourselves  and  identify  our  self-feeling  with  them. 

Children  and  savages  do  not  formulate  any  such  ideal, 
but  they  have  it  nevertheless;  they  see  It;  they  see  them- 
selves and  their  fellows  as  an  indivisible,  though  various, 
"we,"  and  they  desire  this  "we"  to  be  harmonious, 
happy,  and  successful.  How  heartily  one  may  merge 
himself  in  the  family  and  In  the  fellowships  of  youth  Is 
perhaps  within  the  experience  of  all  of  us;  and  we  come 
to  feel  that  the  same  spirit  should  extend  to  our  country, 

33 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

our  race,  our  world.  "All  the  cJbuses  which  are  the  ol> 
jects  of  reform  .  .  .  are  unconsciously  amended  in  the 
intercourse  of  friends."  * 

A  congenial  family  lite  is  the  immemorial  type  of  moral 
unity,  and  source  of  many  of  the  terms — such  as  brother- 
hood, kindness,  and  the  like — which  describe  it.  The 
members  become  merged  by  intimate  association  into  a 
whole  wherein  each  age  and  sex  participates  in  its  own 
way.  Each  lives  in  imaginative  contact  with  the  minds 
of  the  others,  and  finds  in  them  the  dwelling-place  of  his 
social  self,  of  his  affections,  ambitions,  resentments,  and 
standards  of  right  and  wrong.  Without  uniformity,  there 
is  yet  unity,  a  free,  pleasant,  wholesome,  fruitful,  com- 
mon Hfe. 

As  to  the  playground,  Mr.  Joseph  Lee,  in  an  excellent 
paper  on  Play  as  a  School  of  the  Citizen,  gives  the  fol- 
lowing account  of  the  merging  of  the  one  in  the  whole 
that  may  be  learned  from  sport.     The  boy,  he  says, 

**is  deeply  participating  in  a  common  purpose.  The  team  and  the 
plays  that  it  executes  are  present  in  a  very  vivid  manner  to  his  con- 
sciousness. His  conscious  individuality  is  more  thoroughly  lost  in 
the  sense  of  membership  than  perhaps  it  ever  becomes  in  any  other 
way.  So  that  the  sheer  experience  of  citizenship  in  its  simplest 
and  essential  form — of  the  sharing  in  a  public  consciousness,  of 
having  the  social  organization  present  as  a  controlling  ideal  in  your 
heart — is  very  intense.  .  .  . 

Along  with  the  sense  of  the  team  as  a  mechanical  instrument,  and 
unseparated  from  it  in  the  boy's  mind,  is  the  consciousness  of  it  as 
the  embodiment  of  a  common  purpose.  There  is  in  team  play  a  very 
intimate  experience  of  the  ways  in  which  such  a  purpose  is  built  up 
and  made  effective.  You  feel,  though  without  analysis,  the  subtle 
ways  in  which  a  single  strong  character  breaks  out  the  road  ahead 

*  Thoreau,  A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack  Rivers,  283. 

34 


PRIMARY  IDEALS 

and  gives  confidence  to  the  rest  to  follow;  how  the  creative  power 
of  one  ardent  imagination,  bravely  sustained,  makes  possible  the 
putting  through  of  the  play  as  he  conceives  it.  You  feel  to  the  marrow 
of  your  bones  how  each  loyal  member  contributes  to  the  salvation 
of  all  the  others  by  holding  the  conception  of  the  whole  play  so 
firmly  in  his  mind  as  to  enable  them  to  hold  it,  and  to  participate  in 
his  single-minded  determination  to  see  it  carried  out.  You  have 
intimate  experience  of  the  ways  in  which  individual  members  con- 
tribute to  the  team  and  of  how  the  team,  in  turn,  builds  up  their 
spiritual  nature  .  .  . 

And  the  team  is  not  only  an  extension  of  the  player's  conscious- 
ness; it  is  a  part  of  his  personality.  His  participation  has  deepened 
from  cooperation  to  membership.  Not  only  is  he  now  a  part  of 
the  team,  but  the  team  is  a  part  of  him."  * 

Moral  unity,  as  this  illustration  implies,  admits  and 
rewards  strenuous  ambition;  but  this  ambition  must 
either  be  for  the  success  of  the  group,  or  at  least  not  in- 
consistent with  that.  The  fullest  self-realization  will 
belong  to  the  one  who  embraces  in  a  passionate  self-feeling 
the  aims  of  the  fellowship,  and  spends  his  life  in  fighting 
for  their  attainment. 

The  ideal  of  moral  unity  I  take  to  be  the  mother,  as  it 
were,  of  all  social  ideals. 

It  Is,  then,  not  my  aim  to  depreciate  the  self-assertive 
passions.  I  believe  that  they  are  fierce,  inextinguishable, 
indispensable.  Competition  and  the  survival  of  the  fittest 
are  as  righteous  as  kindness  and  cooperation,  and  not 
necessarily  opposed  to  them:  an  adequate  view  will  em- 
brace and  harmonize  these  diverse  aspects.  The  point 
I  wish  particularly  to  bring  out  in  this  chapter  is  that  the 
normal  self  is  moulded  in  primary  groups  to  be  a  social 

*  Charities  and  the  Commons,  Aug.  3,  1907. 
35 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

self  whose  ambitions  are  formed  by  the  common  thought 
of  the  group. 

In  their  crudest  form  such  passions  as  lust,  greed,  re- 
venge, the  pride  of  power  and  the  like  are  not,  distinctively, 
human  nature  at  all,  but  animal  nature,  and  so  far  as  we 
rise  into  the  spirit  of  family  or  neighborhood  association 
we  control  and  subordinate  them.  They  are  rendered 
human  only  so  far  as  they  are  brought  under  the  disci- 
pline of  sympathy,  and  refined  into  sentiments,  such  as 
love,  resentment,  and  ambition.  And  in  so  far  as  they 
are  thus  humanized  they  become  capable  of  useful  func- 
tion. 

Take  the  greed  of  gain,  for  example,  the  ancient  sin  of 
avarice,  the  old  wolf,  as  Dante  says,  that  gets  more  prey 
than  all  the  other  beasts.*  The  desire  of  possession  is  in 
itself  a  good  thing,  a  phase  of  self-realization  and  a  cause 
of  social  improvement.  It  is  immoral  or  greedy  only 
when  it  is  without  adequate  control  from  sympathy,  v/hen 
the  self  realized  is  a  narrow  self.  In  that  case  it  is  a  vice 
of  isolation  or  weak  social  consciousness,  and  indicates 
a  state  of  mind  intermediate  between  the  brutal  and  the 
fully  human  or  moral,  when  desire  is  directed  toward 
social  objects — wealth  or  power — but  is  not  social  in  its 
attitude  toward  others  who  desire  the  same  objects. 
Intimate  association  has  the  power  to  allay  greed.  One 
will  hardly  be  greedy  as  against  his  family  or  close  friends, 
though  very  decent  people  will  be  so  as  against  almost 
any  one  else.     Every  one  must  have  noticed  that  after 

*  Antica  lupa, 
Che  piu  che  tutte  I'altre  beetle  hai  preda. 

Purgatorio,  xx,  10. 

86 


PRIMARY  IDEALS 

frank  association,  even  of  a  transient  character,  with  an- 
other person,  one  usually  has  a  sense  of  kindred  with 
him  which  makes  one  ashamed  to  act  greedily  at  his 
expense. 

Those  who  dwell  preponderantly  upon  the  selfish  aspect 
of  human  nature  and  flout  as  sentimentalism  the  *' altru- 
istic'*  conception  of  it,  make  their  chief  error  in  faihng 
to  see  that  our  self  itself  is  altruistic,  that  the  object  of 
our  higher  greed  is  some  desired  place  in  the  minds  of 
other  men,  and  that  through  this  it  is  possible  to  enlist 
ordinary  human  nature  in  the  service  of  ideal  aims. 
The  improvement  of  society  does  not  call  for  any  essential 
change  in  human  nature,  but,  chiefly,  for  a  larger  and 
higher  application  of  its  familiar  impulses. 

I  know,  also,  that  the  most  truculent  behavior  may  be 
exalted  into  an  ideal,  like  the  ferocity  of  Samuel,  when  he 
hewed  Agag  to  pieces  before  the  Lord,*  or  of  the  orthodox 
Christian  of  a  former  age  in  the  destruction  of  heretics. 
In  general  there  is  always  a  morality  of  opposition,  spring- 
ing from  the  need  of  the  sympathetic  group  to  assert  it- 
self in  the  struggle  for  existence.  Even  at  the  present 
day  this  more  or  less  idealizes  destructiveness  and  deceit 
in  the  conflicts  of  war,  if  not  of  commerce. 

But  such  precepts  are  secondary,  not  ideals  in  the  same 
primary  and  enduring  sense  that  loyalty  and  kindness  are. 
They  shine  by  reflected  light,  and  get  their  force  mainly 
from  the  belief  that  they  express  the  requirements  of  the 
"we"  group  in  combating  its  enemies.  Flourishing  at 
certain  stages  of  development  because  they  are  requisite 
*  1  Samuel,  15  :  33. 
37 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

under  the  prevailing  conditions  of  destructive  conflict, 
they  are  slowly  abandoned  or  transformed  when  these  con- 
ditions change.  Mankind  at  large  has  no  love  of  them 
for  their  own  sake,  though  individuals,  classes,  or  even 
nations  may  acquire  them  as  a  habit.  With  the  advance 
of  civilization  conflict  itself  is  brought  more  and  more 
under  the  control  of  those  principles  that  prevail  in  primary 
groups,  and,  so  far  as  this  is  the  case,  conduct  which  violates 
such  principles  ceases  to  have  any  ideal  value. 

To  break  up  the  ideal  of  a  moral  whole  mto  particular 
ideals  is  an  artificial  process  which  every  thinker  would 
probably  carry  out  in  his  own  way.  Perhaps,  however, 
the  most  sahent  principles  are  loyalty,  lawfulness,  and 
freedom. 

In  so  far  as  one  identifies  himself  with  a  whole,  loyalty 
to  that  whole  is  loyalty  to  himself;  it  is  self-realization, 
something  in  which  one  cannot  fail  without  losing  self- 
respect.  Moreover  this  is  a  larger  self,  leading  out  into 
a  wider  and  richer  life,  and  appealing,  therefore,  to  en- 
thusiasm and  the  need  of  quickening  ideals.  One  is 
never  more  human,  and  as  a  rule  never  happier,  than 
when  he  is  sacrificing  his  narrow  and  merely  private  inter- 
est to  the  higher  call  of  the  congenial  group.  And  with- 
out doubt  the  natural  genesis  of  this  sentiment  is  in  the 
intimacy  of  face-to-face  cooperation.  It  is  rather  the 
rule  than  the  exception  in  the  family,  and  grows  up  among 
children  and  youth  so  fast  as  they  learn  to  think  and  act 
to  common  ends.  The  team  feeling  described  above 
illustrates  it  as  well  as  anything. 

Among  the  ideals  inseparable  from  loyalty  are  those  of 

38 


PRIMARY  IDEALS 

truth,  service,  and  kindness,  always  conceived  as  due  to  the 
intimate  group  rather  than  to  the  world  at  large. 

Truth  or  good  faith  toward  other  members  of  a  fellow- 
ship is,  so  far  as  I  know,  a  universal  human  ideal.  It  does 
not  involve  any  abstract  love  of  veracity,  and  is  quite  con- 
sistent with  deception  toward  the  outside  world,  being 
essentially  "truth  of  intercourse"  or  fair  dealing  among 
intimates.  There  are  few,  even  among  those  reckoned 
lawless,  who  will  not  keep  faith  with  one  who  has  the  gift 
of  getting  near  to  them  in  spirit  and  making  them  feel 
that  he  is  one  of  themselves.  Thus  Judge  Lindsey  of 
Denver  has  worked  a  revolution  among  the  neglected 
boys  of  his  city,  by  no  other  method  than  that  of  entering 
into  the  same  moral  whole,  becoming  part  of  a  "we" 
with  them.  He  awakens  their  sense  of  honor,  trusts  it, 
and  is  almost  never  disappointed.  When  he  wishes  to 
send  a  boy  to  the  reform  school  the  latter  promises  to  re- 
pair to  the  institution  at  a  given  time  and  invariably  does 
so.  Among  tramps  a  similar  sentiment  prevails.  "It 
will  be  found,"  said  a  young  man  who  had  spent  the  sum- 
mer among  vagrants,  "  that  if  they  are  treated  square  they 
will  do  the  same." 

The  ideal  of  service  likewise  goes  with  the  sense  of 
unity.  If  there  is  a  vital  whole  the  right  aim  of  individual 
activity  can  be  no  other  than  to  serve  that  whole.  And 
this  is  not  so  much  a  theory  as  a  feeling  that  will  exist 
wherever  the  whole  is  felt.  It  is  a  poor  sort  of  an  indi- 
vidual that  does  not  feel  the  need  to  devote  himself  to  the 
larger  purposes  of  the  group.  In  our  society  many  feel 
this  need  in  youth  and  express  it  on  the  playground  who 

39 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

never  succeed  in  realizing  it  among  the  less  intimate  re- 
lations of  business  or  professional  life. 

All  mankind  acknowledges  kindness  as  the  law  of  right 
intercourse  within  a  social  group.  By  communion  minds 
are  fused  into  a  sympathetic  whole,  each  part  of  which 
tends  to  share  the  life  of  all  the  rest,  so  that  kindness  is  a 
common  joy,  and  harshness  a  common  pain.  It  is  the 
simplest,  most  attractive,  and  most  diffused  of  human 
ideals.  The  golden  rule  springs  directly  from  human 
nature. 

Accordingly  this  ideal  has  been  bound  up  with  associ- 
ation in  all  past  times  and  among  all  peoples:  it  was  a 
matter  of  course  that  when  men  acted  together  in  war, 
industry,  devotion,  sport,  or  what  not,  they  formed  a 
brotherhood  or  friendship.  It  is  perhaps  only  in  modern 
days,  along  with  the  great  and  sudden  differentiation  of 
activities,  that  feeling  has  failed  to  keep  up,  and  the  idea 
of  cooperation  without  friendship  has  become  familiar. 

Mr.  Westermarck,  than  whom  there  is  no  better  au- 
thority on  a  question  of  this  sort,  has  filled  several  chap- 
ters of  his  work  on  the  Origin  and  Development  of  Moral 
Ideas  with  evidence  of  the  universality  of  kindness  and 
the  kindly  ideal.  After  showing  at  length  that  uncivilized 
people  recognize  the  duty  of  kindness  and  support  from 
mother  to  child^  father  to  child,  child  to  parent,  and  among 
brethren  and  kinsmen,  he  goes  on  to  say:*  ''But  the  duty 
of  helping  the  needy  and  protecting  those  in  danger  goes 
beyond  the  limits  of  the  family  and  the  gens.  Uncivilized 
peoples  are,  as  a  rule,  described  as  kind  toward  members 
*  Vol.  i,  540  Jf. 
40 


PRIMARY  IDEALS 

of  their  own  community  or  tribe.  Between  themselves 
charity  is  enjoined  as  a  duty  and  generosity  is  praised  as  a 
virtue.  Indeed  their  customs  regarding  mutual  aid  are 
often  much  more  stringent  than  our  own.  And  this  ap- 
plies even  to  the  lowest  savages." 

Beginning  with  the  Australians,  he  quotes  the  state- 
ment of  Spencer  and  Gillen  that  their  treatment  of  one 
another  ''is  marked  on  the  whole  by  considerable  Idnd- 
ness,  that  is,  of  course,  in  the  case  of  members  of  friendly 
groups,  with  every  now  and  then  the  perpetration  of  acts 
of  cruelty."  Concerning  the  North  American  Indians  he 
cites  many  writers.  Catlin  says  "  to  their  friends  there  are 
no  people  on  earth  that  are  more  kind."  Adair  that  "they 
are  very  kind  and  liberal  to  every  one  of  their  own  tribe, 
even  to  the  last  morsel  of  food  they  enjoy";  also  that 
Nature's  school  "teaches  them  the  plain,  easy  rule.  Do 
to  others  as  you  would  be  done  by."  Morgan  reports  that 
"among  the  Iroquois  kindness  to  the  orphan,  hospitality 
to  all,  and  a  common  brotherhood  were  among  the  doctrines 
held  up  for  acceptance  by  their  religious  instructors." 
An  Iroquois  "would  surrender  his  dinner  to  feed  the 
hungry,  vacate  his  bed  to  refresh  the  weary,  and  give  up 
his  apparel  to  clothe  the  naked." 

And  so  Westermarck  goes  on,  in  the  exhaustive  way 
familiar  to  readers  of  his  works,  to  show  that  like  senti- 
ments prevail  the  world  over.  Kropotkin  has  collected 
similar  evidence  in  his  Mutual  Aid  a  Factor  in  Civilization. 
The  popular  notion  of  savages  as  lacking  in  the  gender 
feelings  is  an  error  springing  from  the  external,  usually 
hostile,  nature  of  our  contact  with  them.  Indeed,  a  state 
of  things,  such  as  is  found  in  our  own  cities,  where  want 

41 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

and  plenty  exist  side  by  side  without  the  latter  feeling 
any  compulsion  to  relieve  the  former,  is  shocking  and  in- 
comprehensible to  many  savages. 

Ordinarily  the  ideal  of  kindness,  in  savage  and  civilized 
societies  alike,  applies  only  to  those  within  the  sympathetic 
group;  the  main  difference  between  civilization  and  sav- 
agery, in  this  regard,  being  that  under  the  former  the 
group  tends  to  enlarge.  One  reason  for  the  restriction 
is  that  kindness  is  aroused  by  sympathy,  and  can  have 
little  life  except  as  our  imaginations  are  opened  to  the 
lives  of  others  and  they  are  made  part  of  ourselves.  Even 
the  Christian  church,  as  history  shows,  has  for  the  most 
part  inculcated  kindness  only  to  those  within  its  own  pale, 
or  within  a  particular  sect;  and  the  modern  ideal  of  a 
kindness  embracing  all  humanity  (modern  at  least  so 
far  as  western  nations  are  concerned)  is  connected  with 
a  growing  understanding  of  the  unity  of  the  race. 

Every  intimate  group,  like  every  individual,  experiences 
conflicting  impulses  within  itself,  and  as  the  individual 
feels  the  need  of  definite  principles  to  shape  his  conduct 
and  give  him  peace,  so  the  group  needs  law  or  rule  fc^i-  the 
same  purpose.  It  is  not  merely  that  the  over-strong  or 
the  insubordinate  must  be  restrained,  but  that  all  alike 
may  have  some  definite  criterion  of  what  the  good  mem- 
ber ought  to  do.  It  is  a  mere  fact  of  psychology  that  where 
a  social  whole  exists  it  may  be  as  painful  to  do  wrong  as 
to  suffer  it — because  one's  own  spirit  is  divided — and  the 
common  need  is  for  harmony  through  a  law,  framed  in 
the  total  interest,  which  every  one  can  and  must  obey. 

This  need  of  rules  to  align  differentiated  impulse  with 

i? 


PRIMARY  IDEALS 

the  good  of  the  whole  is  nowhere  more  apparent  than  on 
the  playground.  Miss  Buck,  the  author  of  an  instructive 
work  on  Boys'  Self-Governing  Clubs,  suggests  that  the 
elementary  form  of  equity  is  *'  taking  turns,"  as  at  swings 
and  the  like;  and  any  one  who  has  shared  in  a  boys*  camp 
will  recall  the  constant  demand,  by  the  boys  themselves,  for 
rules  of  this  nature.  There  must  be  a  fair  distribution 
of  privileges  as  to  boats,  games,  and  so  on,  and  an  equal 
distribution  of  food.  And  we  learn  from  Robert  Woods 
that  gangs  of  boys  on  the  streets  of  cities  generally  have 
a  "judge"  to  whom  all  disputes  are  referred  if  no  agree- 
ment is  otherwise  reached.* 

No  doubt  every  one  remembers  how  the  idea  of  justice 
is  developed  in  children's  games.  There  is  always  some- 
thing to  be  done,  in  which  various  parts  are  to  be  taken, 
success  depending  upon  their  efficient  distribution.  All 
see  this  and  draw  from  experience  the  idea  that  there  is  a 
higher  principle  that  ought  to  control  the  undisciplined 
ambition  of  individuals.  *' Rough  games,"  says  Miss 
Buck,  ''in  many  respects  present  in  miniature  the  con- 
ditions of  a  society  where  an  ideal  state  of  justice,  freedom 
and  equality  prevails."!  Mr.  Joseph  Lee,  in  the  paper 
quoted  above,  expounds  the  matter  at  more  length  and 
with  much  insight. 

You  may  be  very  intent  to  beat  the  other  man  in  the  race,  but  after 
experience  of  many  contests  the  fair  promise  of  whose  morning  has 
been  clouded  over  by  the  long  and  many-worded  dispute  terminating 
in  a  general  row,  with  indecisive  and  unsatisfying  result,  you  begin 
dimly  to  perceive  that  you  and  the  other  fellows  and  the  rest  of  the 
crowd,  for  the  very  reason  that  you  are  contestants  and  prospectire 

*  The  City  Wilderness,  116. 

t  Boys'  Self-Governing  Clubs,  4,  5. 

43 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

contestants,  have  interests  in  common — interests  in  the  establish* 
ment  and  maintenance  of  those  necessary  rules  and  regulations  with- 
out which  satisfactory  contests  cannot  be  carried  on.  .  .  .  The 
child's  need  of  conflict  is  from  a  desire  not  to  exterminate  his  com- 
petitor, but  to  overcome  him  and  to  have  his  own  superiority  ac- 
knowledged. The  boy  desires  to  be  somebody;  but  being  somebody 
is  to  him  a  social  achievement.  And  though  there  is  temptation  tc 
pervert  justice,  to  try  to  get  the  decision  when  you  have  not  really 
furnished  the  proof,  there  is  also  a  motive  against  such  procedure. 
The  person  whom  you  really  and  finally  want  to  convince  is  yourself. 
Your  deepest  desire  is  to  beat  the  other  boy,  not  merely  to  seem  to 
beat  him.  By  playing  unfairly  and  forcing  decisions  in  your  own  fa- 
vor, you  may  possibly  cheat  the  others,  but  you  cannot  cheat  yourself. 
But  the  decisions  in  most  of  the  disputes  have  behind  them  the 
further,  more  obviously  social,  motive  of  carrying  on  a  successful 
game.  The  sense  of  common  interest  has  been  stretched  so  as  to 
take  the  competitive  impulse  itself  into  camp,  domesticate  it,  and 
make  it  a  part  of  the  social  system.  The  acutely  realized  fact  that  a 
society  of  chronic  kickers  can  never  play  a  game  or  anything  else, 
comes  to  be  seen  against  the  background  of  a  possible  orderly  ar- 
rangement of  which  one  has  had  occasional  experience,  and  with 
which  one  has  come  at  last  to  sympathize;  there  comes  to  be  to  some 
extent  an  identification  of  one's  own  interests  and  purposes  with  the 
interests  and  purposes  of  the  whole.  Certainly  the  decisions  of  the 
group  as  to  whether  Jimmy  was  out  at  first,  as  to  who  came  out  last, 
and  whether  Mary  Ann  was  really  caught,  are  felt  as  community 
and  not  as  individual  decisions.* 

No  doubt  American  boys  have  more  of  the  spirit  and 
practice  of  this  sort  of  organization  than  those  of  any- 
other  country,  except  possibly  England:  they  have  the 
constant  spectacle  of  self-government  among  their  elders, 
and  also,  perhaps,  some  advantage  in  natural  aptitude 
to  help  them  on.  But  it  is  doubtful  if  there  is  any  great 
difference  among  the  white  peoples  in  the  latter  regard. 
American  children  of  German  and  Irish  descent  are  no^ 

*  Charities  and  the  Commons,  Aug.  3,  1907,  abridged. 
44 


PRIMARY  IDEALS 

inferior  to  the  Anglo-Saxons,  and  among  the  newer  im- 
migrants the  Jewish  children,  at  least,  show  a  marked 
aptitude  for  organization.  The  question  might  profit- 
ably be  investigated  in  our  great  cities. 

Of  course  the  ideals  derived  from  juvenile  experience 
are  carried  over  into  the  wider  life,  and  men  always  find 
it  easy  to  conceive  righteousness  in  terms  of  fair  play. 
*'The  Social  Question,"  says  a  penetrative  writer,  '*is 
forever  an  attack  upon  what,  in  some  form,  is  thought 
to  be  unfair  privilege."* 

The  law  or  rule  that  human  nature  demands  has  a 
democratic  principle  latent  in  it,  because  it  must  be  one 
congenial  to  general  sentiment.  Explicit  democracy, 
however — deciding  by  popular  vote  and  the  like — is  not 
primary  and  general  like  the  need  of  law,  but  is  rather  a 
mechanism  for  deciding  what  the  rule  is  to  be,  and  no 
more  natural  than  the  appeal  to  authority.  Indeed, 
there  seems  to  be,  among  children  as  among  primitive 
peoples,  a  certain  reluctance  to  ascribe  laws  to  the  mere 
human  choice  of  themselves  and  their  fellows.  They 
wish  to  assign  them  to  a  higher  source  and  to  think  of 
them  as  having  an  unquestionable  sanction.  So  far  as 
my  own  observation  goes,  even  American  boys  prefer  to 
receive  rules  from  tradition  or  from  their  elders,  when  they 
can.  Nothing  is  easier  than  for  a  parent,  or  mentor  of  any 
kind,  to  be  a  lawgiver  to  children,  if  only  he  has  their  con- 
fidence, and  if  the  laws  themselves  prove  workable.  But 
the  test  of  law  is  social  and  popular;  it  must  suit  the  gen- 
eral mind.  If,  for  instance,  a  man  takes  a  group  of  boys 
camping,  and  has  their  confidence,  they  will  gladly  receive 
*  John  Graham  Brooks,  The  Social  Unrest,  135. 

45 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

rules  from  him,  expecting,  of  course,  that  they  will  be 
good  rules.  But  if  they  prove  to  be  unreasonable  and 
troublesome,  they  will  soon  cease  to  work. 

Freedom  is  that  phase  of  the  social  ideal  which  empha- 
sizes individuality.  The  whole  to  which  we  belong  is 
made  up  of  diverse  energies  w^hich  enkindle  one  another 
by  friction;  and  its  vigor  requires  that  these  have  play. 
Thus  the  fierce  impulses  of  ambition  and  pride  may  be  as 
organic  as  anything  else — provided  they  are  sufiiciently  hu- 
manized as  to  their  objects — and  are  to  be  interfered  with 
only  when  they  become  destructive  or  oppressive.  More- 
over, we  must  not  be  required  to  prove  to  others  the  benefi- 
cence of  our  peculiarity,  but  should  be  allowed,  if  we  wish, 
to  "write  whijii  on  the  lintels  of  the  door-post."  Our  de- 
su'es  and  purposes,  though  social  in  their  ultimate  nature, 
are  apt  to  be  unacceptable  on  first  appearance,  and  the 
more  so  in  proportion  to  their  value.  Thus  we  feel  a  need  to 
be  let  alone,  and  sympathize  with  a  similar  need  in  others. 

This  is  so  familiar  a  principle,  especially  among  English 
and  Americans,  to  whose  temperament  and  traditions  it 
is  peculiarly  congenial,  that  I  need  not  discuss  it  at  length. 
It  is  a  phase  of  idealism  that  comes  most  vividly  to  con- 
sciousness when  formal  and  antiquated  systems  of  control 
need  to  be  broken  up,  as  in  the  eighteenth  century.  It 
then  represented  the  appeal  to  human  nature  as  against 
outw^orn  mechanism.  Our  whole  social  and  political 
philosophy  still  echoes  that  conflict. 

The  bearing  of  this  view  of  human  nature  may  perhaps 
be  made  clearer  by  considering  its  relation  to  the  familiar 

46 


PRIMARY  IDEALS 

but  now  somewhat  discredited  doctrine  of  Natural  Right 
This  is  traced  from  the  speculations  of  Greek  philosophers 
down  through  Roman  jurisprudence  to  Hobbes,  Locke, 
Rousseau,  and  others,  who  gave  it  its  modern  forms  and 
through  whose  works  it  became  a  factor  in  modern  his- 
tory. It  was  familiar  to  our  forefathers  and  is  set  forth 
in  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  According  to  it 
society  is  made  up,  primarily,  of  free  individuals,  who 
must  be  held  to  create  government  and  other  institutions 
by  a  sort  of  implied  contract,  yielding  up  a  part  of  their 
natural  right  in  order  to  enjoy  the  benefits  of  organization. 
But  if  the  organization  does  not  confer  these  benefits, 
then,  as  most  writers  held,  it  is  wrong  and  void,  and  the 
individuals  may  properly  reclaim  their  natural  freedom. 

Now  in  form  this  doctrine  is  wholly  at  variance  with 
evolutionary  thought.  To  the  latter,  society  is  an  organic 
growth;  there  is  no  individual  apart  from  society,  no 
freedom  apart  from  organization,  no  social  contract  of 
the  sort  taught  by  these  philosophers.  In  its  practical 
applications,  however,  the  teaching  of  natural  right  is 
not  so  absurd  and  obsolete  as  is  sometimes  imagined.  If 
it  is  true  that  human  nature  is  developed  in  primary  groups 
which  are  everywhere  much  the  same,  and  that  there  also 
springs  from  these  a  common  idealism  which  institutions 
strive  to  express,  we  have  a  ground  for  somewhat  the 
same  conclusions  as  come  from  the  theory  of  a  natural 
freedom  modified  by  contract.  Natural  freedom  would 
correspond  roughly  to  the  ideals  generated  and  partly 
realized  in  primary  association,  the  social  contract  to  the 
limitations  these  ideals  encounter  in  seeking  a  larger  ex- 
pression. 

47 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

indeed,  is  it  not  true  that  the  natural  rights  of  this 
philosophy — the  right  to  personal  freedom,  the  right  to 
labor,  the  right  to  property,  the  right  to  open  competition 
— are  ideals  which  in  reality  sprang  then  as  they  do  now 
largely  from  what  the  philosophers  knew  of  the  activities 
of  men  in  small,  face-to-face  groups  ? 

The  reluctance  to  give  up  ideals  like  those  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence,  without  something  equally 
simple  and  human  to  take  their  place,  is  healthy  and  need 
not  look  far  for  theoretical  justification. 

The  idea  of  the  germinal  character  of  primary  associa- 
tion is  one  that  is  fast  making  its  way  in  education  and 
philanthropy.  As  we  learn  that  man  is  altogether  social 
and  never  seen  truly  except  in  connection  with  his  fellows, 
we  fix  our  attention  more  and  more  on  group  conditions 
as  the  source,  for  better  or  worse,  of  personal  character, 
and  come  to  feel  that  we  must  work  on  the  individual 
through  the  web  of  relations  in  which  he  actually  lives. 

The  school,  for  instance,  must  form  a  w^hole  with  the 
rest  of  life,  using  the  ideas  generated  by  the  latter  as  the 
starting-point  of  its  training.  The  public  opinion  and 
traditions  of  the  scholars  must  be  respected  and  made  an 
ally  of  discipline.  Children's  associations  should  be 
fostered  and  good  objects  suggested  for  their  activity. 

In  philanthropy  it  is  essential  that  the  unity  of  the 
family  be  regarded  and  its  natural  bonds  not  weakened 
for  the  sake  of  transient  benefit  to  the  individual.  Chil- 
dren, especially,  must  be  protected  from  the  destructive 
kindness  which  inculcates  irresponsibility  in  the  parent. 
In  general  the  heart  of  reform  is  in  control  of  the  conditions 

48 


PRIMARY  IDEALS 

which  act  upon  the  family  and  neighborhood.  \Nhen  the 
housing,  for  example,  is  of  such  a  character  as  to  make  a 
healthy  heme  life  impossible,  the  boys  and  girls  are  driven 
to  the  streets,  the  men  into  saloons,  and  thus  society  is 
diseased  at  its  source. 

AYithout  healthy  play,  especially  group  play,  human 
nature  cannot  righdy  develop,  and  to  preserve  this,  in  the 
midst  of  the  crowding  and  aggressive  commercialism  of 
our  cities,  is  coming  to  be  seen  as  a  special  need  of  the 
time.  Democracy,  it  is  now  held,  must  recognize  as  one 
of  its  essential  functions  the  provision  of  ample  spaces  and 
apparatus  for  this  purpose,  with  enough  judicious  super- 
vision to  ensure  the  ascendency  of  good  play  traditions. 
And  with  this  must  go  the  suppression  of  child  labor  and 
other  inhumane  conditions. 

Fruitful  attention  is  being  given  to  boys*  fellow- 
ships or  "gangs."  It  appears — as  any  one  who  recalls 
his  own  boyhood  might  have  anticipated — that  nearly  all 
the  juvenile  population  belong  to  such  fellowships,  and 
put  an  ardent,  though  often  misdirected,  idealism  into 
them.  "AJmost  every  boy  in  the  tenement-house  quarters 
of  the  district,"  says  Robert  A.  Woods,  speaking  of  Boston, 
*'  is  a  member  of  a  gang.  The  boy  who  does  not  belong  is 
not  only  the  exception  but  the  very  rare  exception."*  In 
crowded  neighborhoods,  where  there  are  no  playgrounds 
and  street  sports  are  unlawful,  the  human  nature  of  these 
gangs  must  take  a  semi-criminal  direction;  but  with  better 
opportunities  and  guidance  it  turns  quite  as  naturally  to 
wholesome  sport  and  social  service.  Accordingly  social 
settlements  and  similar  agencies  are  converting  gangs  into 
*  The  City  Wilderness,  113. 
4? 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

clubs,  with  the  best  results;  and  there  is  also  coming  to 
be  a  regular  organization  of  voluntary  clubs  in  affiliation 
with  the  public  schools. 

It  is  much  the  same  in  the  country.  In  every  village 
and  township  in  the  land,  I  suppose,  there  are  one  or 
more  groups  of  predatory  boys  and  hoydenish  girls  whose 
mischief  is  only  the  result  of  ill-directed  energy.  If  each 
of  these  could  receive  a  little  sympathetic  attention  from 
kindred  but  wiser  spirits,  at  least  half  of  the  crime  and  vice 
of  the  next  generation  would  almost  certainly  be  done  away 
with. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  EXTENSION  OF  PRIMARY  IDEALS 

Primary  Ideals  Underlie  Democracy  and  Christianity — Why 
They  are  not  Achieved  on  a  Larger  Scale — What  They 
Require  from  Personality — From  Social  Mechanism— 
The  Principle  of  Compensation. 

It  will  be  found  that  those  systems  of  larger  idealism 
which  are  most  human  and  so  of  most  enduring  value, 
are  based  upon  the  ideals  of  primary  groups.  Take, 
for  instance,  the  two  systems  that  have  most  vitality  at 
the  present  time — democracy  and  Christianity. 

The  aspirations  of  ideal  democracy — including,  of 
course,  socialism,  and  whatever  else  may  go  by  a  special 
name — are  those  naturally  springing  from  the  playground 
or  the  local  community;  embracing  equal  opportunity, 
fair  play,  the  loyal  service  of  all  in  the  common  good,  free 
discussion,  and  kindness  to  the  weak.  These  are  renewed 
every  day  in  the  hearts  of  the  people  because  they  spring 
from  and  are  corroborated  by  familiar  and  homely  ex- 
perience. Moreover,  modern  democracy  as  a  historical 
current  is  apparently  traceable  back  to  the  village  com- 
munity life  of  the  Teutonic  tribes  of  northern  Europe, 
from  which  it  descends  through  English  constitutional 
liberty  and  the  American  and  French  revolutions  to  its 
broad  and  deep  channels  of  the  nineteenth  and  twentieth 
centuries. 

51 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

And  Christianity,  as  a  social  system,  is  based  upon  the 
family,  its  ideals  being  traceable  to  the  domestic  circle  of  a 
Judaean  carpenter.  God  is  a  kind  father;  men  and  women 
are  brothers  and  sisters;  we  are  all  members  one  of  an- 
other, doing  as  we  would  be  done  by  and  referring  all 
things  to  the  rule  of  love.  In  so  far  as  the  church  has 
departed  from  these  principles  it  has  proved  transient; 
these  endure  because  they  are  human. 

But  why  is  it  that  human  nature  is  not  more  successful 
in  achieving  these  primary  aims?  They  appear  to  be 
simple  and  reasonable,  and  one  asks  why  they  are  so  litde 
realized,  why  we  are  not,  in  fact,  a  moral  whole,  a  happy 
family. 

It  is  not  because  we  do  not  wish  it.  There  can  be  no 
doubt,  I  should  say,  that,  leaving  aside  a  comparatively 
few  abnormal  individuals,  whose  influence  is  small,  men 
in  general  have  a  natural  allegiance  to  the  community 
ideal,  and  would  gladly  see  it  carried  out  on  a  large  as 
well  as  a  small  scale.  And  nearly  all  imaginative  and  as- 
piring persons  view  it  with  enthusiasm,  and  would  devote 
themselves  to  it  with  some  ardor  and  sacrifice  if  they  saw 
clearly  how  they  could  do  so  with  effect.  It  is  easy  to 
imagine  types  of  pure  malignity  in  people  of  whom  we 
have  little  knowledge,  but  who  ever  came  to  know  any 
one  intimately  without  finding  that  he  had  somewhere 
in  him  the  impulses  of  a  man  and  a  brother  ? 

The  failure  to  realize  these  impulses  in  practice  is,  of 
course,  due  in  part  to  moral  weakness  of  a  personal  char- 
acter, to  the  fact  that  our  higher  nature  has  but  an  im- 
perfect and  transien*^  'nastery  of  our  lower,  so  that  we  never 

62 


THE  EXTENSION  OF  PRIMARY  IDEALS 

live  up  to  our  ideals.  But  going  beyond  this  and  looking 
at  the  matter  from  the  standpoint  of  the  larger  mind,  the 
cause  of  failure  is  seen  to  be  the  difficulty  of  organization. 
Even  if  our  intentions  were  always  good,  we  should  not 
succeed,  because,  to  make  good  intentions  effective,  they 
must  be  extended  into  a  system.  In  attempting  to  do  this 
our  constructive  power  is  used  up  and  our  ideals  confused 
and  discouraged.  We  are  even  led  to  create  a  kind  of 
institutions  which,  though  good  in  certain  aspects,  may 
brutalize  or  ossify  the  individual,  so  that  primary  idealism 
in  him  is  almost  obliterated.  The  creation  of  a  moral 
order  on  an  ever-growing  scale  is  the  great  historical  task 
of  mankind,  and  the  magnitude  of  it  explains  aU  short- 
comings. 

From  personality  the  building  of  a  moral  order  re- 
quires not  only  good  impulses  but  character  and  capacity. 
The  ideal  must  be  worked  out  with  steadfastness,  self- 
control,  and  intelligence.  Even  families  and  fellowships, 
though  usually  on  a  higher  level  than  more  elaborate 
structures,  often  break  down,  and  commonly  from  lack  of 
character  in  their  members.  But  if  it  is  insufficient  here, 
how  much  less  will  it  suffice  for  a  righteous  state.  Our 
new  order  of  life,  with  its  great  extension  of  structure  and 
its  principle  of  freedom,  is  an  ever  severer  test  of  the  po- 
litical and  moral  fibre  of  mankind,  of  its  power  to  hold 
itself  together  in  vast,  efficient,  plastic  wholes.  "Whatever 
races  or  social  systems  fail  to  produce  this  fibre  must  yield 
ascendency  to  those  which  succeed. 

This  stronger  personality  depends  also  upon  training; 
and  whatever  peoples  succeed  in  being  righteous  on  a 

53 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

great  scale  will  do  so  only  by  adding  to  natural  capacity 
an  education  suited  to  the  growing  demands  of  the  situa- 
tion— one  at  the  same  time  broad  and  special,  technical 
and  humane.  There  can  be  no  moral  order  that  does  not 
live  in  the  mind  of  the  individual. 

Besides  personality — or  rather  correlative  with  it- 
there  must  be  an  adequate  mechanism  of  communication 
and  organization.  In  small  groups  the  requirements  of 
structure  are  so  simple  as  to  make  little  trouble,  but  in 
proportion  as  the  web  of  relations  extends  and  diversifies, 
they  become  more  and  more  difficult  to  meet  without  sacri- 
ficing human  nature;  so  that,  other  things  equal,  the 
freedom  and  real  unity  of  the  system  are  likely  to  vary  in- 
versely with  its  extent.  It  is  only  because  other  things 
have  not  remained  equal,  because  the  mechanism  has 
been  improved,  that  it  has  become  possible,  in  a  measure, 
to  reconcile  freedom  with  extent. 

Communication  must  be  full  and  quick  In  order  to  give 
that  promptness  in  the  give-and-take  of  suggestions  upon 
which  moral  unity  depends.  Gesture  and  speech  ensure 
this  in  the  face-to-face  group;  but  only  the  recent  marvel- 
lous improvement  of  communicative  machinery  makes  a 
free  mind  on  a  great  scale  even  conceivable.  If  there  is 
no  means  of  working  thought  and  sentiment  into  a  whole 
by  reciprocation,  the  unity  of  the  group  cannot  be  other 
than  inert  and  unhuman.  This  cause  alone  would  ac- 
count for  the  lack  of  extended  freedom  previous  to  the 
nineteenth  century. 

There  must  also  be  forms  and  customs  of  rational  organ- 
ization, through  which  human  nature  may  express  itself 

54 


THE  EXTENSION  OF  PRIMARY  IDEALS 

in  an  orderly  and  effective  manner.  Even  children 
learn  the  need  of  regular  discussion  and  decision,  while 
all  bodies  of  adults  meeting  for  deliberation  find  that  they 
can  think  organically  only  by  observance  of  the  rules 
which  have  been  worked  out  for  such  occasions.  And 
if  we  are  to  have  great  and  stable  nations,  it  is  easy  to  see 
that  these  rules  of  order  must  become  a  body  of  law  and 
custom  including  most,  if  not  all,  of  the  familiar  institu- 
tions of  society.  These  are  a  product  of  progressive  in- 
vention, trial,  and  survival  as  much  as  the  railroad  or  the 
factory,  and  they  have  in  the  long  run  the  same  purpose, 
that  of  the  fuller  expression  of  human  nature  in  a  social 
system. 

As  might  be  expected  from  these  conditions,  there  is  a 
principle  of  compensation  at  work  in  the  growth  of  the 
larger  mind.  The  more  betterment  there  is,  the  more  of 
vital  force,  of  human  reason,  feeling,  and  choice,  goes  into 
it;  and,  as  these  are  limited,  improvement  in  one  respect 
is  apt  to  be  offset,  at  least  in  part  or  temporarily,  by  delay 
or  retrogression  in  others. 

Thus  a  rapid  improvement  in  the  means  of  communica- 
tion, as  we  see  in  our  own  time,  supplies  the  basis  for  a 
larger  and  freer  society,  and  yet  it  may,  by  disordering 
settled  relations,  and  by  fixing  attention  too  much  upon 
mechanical  phases  of  progress,  bring  in  conditions  of  con- 
fusion and  injustice  that  are  the  opposite  of  free. 

A  very  general  fact  of  early  political  history  is  deteriora- 
tion by  growth.  The  small  state  cannot  escape  its  des- 
tiny as  part  of  a  larger  world,  but  must  expand  or  perish. 
It  grows  in  size,  power,  and  diversity  by  the  necessities 

55 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

of  its  struggle  for  existence — as  did  Rome,  Athens,  and  a 
hundred  other  states — but  in  so  doing  sacrifices  human 
nature  to  miUtary  expediency  and  develops  a  mechanical 
or  despotic  structure.  This,  in  the  long  run,  produces 
weakness,  decay,  and  conquest,  or  perhaps  revolt  and 
revolution.  The  requirements  c^'  human  nature — both 
direct,  as  expressed  in  social  idealism,  and  indirect,  as 
felt  in  the  ultimate  weakness  and  failure  of  systems  which 
disregard  them — are  irrepressible.  Gradually,  therefore, 
through  improvement  and  through  the  survival  of  higher 
types  in  conflict,  a  type  of  larger  structure  is  developed 
which  less  sacrifices  these  requirements. 

Much  of  w^hat  is  unfree  and  unhuman  in  our  modern 
life  comes  from  mere  inadequacy  of  mental  and  moral 
energy  to  meet  the  accumulating  demands  upon  it.  In 
many  quarters  attention  and  effort  must  be  lacking,  and 
where  this  is  the  case  social  relations  fall  to  a  low  plane — 
just  as  a  teacher  who  has  too  much  to  do  necessarily 
adopts  a  mechanical  style  of  instruction.  So  what  we  call 
"red  tape"  prevails  in  great  clerical  offices  because  much 
business  is  done  by  persons  of  small  ability,  who  can  work 
only  under  rule.  And  great  bureaucratic  systems,  like 
the  Russian  Empire,  are  of  much  the  same  nature. 

In  general  the  wrongs  of  the  social  system  come  much 
more  from  inadequacy  than  from  ill  intention.  It  is  in- 
deed not  to  be  expected  that  all  relations  should  be  fully 
rational  and  sympathetic;  we  have  to  be  content  with  in- 
fusing reason  and  sympathy  into  what  is  most  vital. 

Society,  then,  as  a  moral  organism,  is  a  progressive 
creation,  tentatively  wrought  out  through  experiment^ 
struggle,  and  survival.     Not  only  individuals  but  ideas, 

56 


THE  EXTENSION  OF  PRIMARY  IDEALS 

institutions,  nations,  and  races  do  their  work  upon  it  and 
perish.  Its  ideals,  though  simple  in  spirit,  are  achieved 
through  endless  elaboration  of  means. 

It  will  be  my  further  endeavor  to  throw  some  light  upon 
this  striving  whole  by  considering  certain  phases  of  its 
organization,  such  as  Communication,  Public  Opinion, 
Sentiment,  Classes,  and  Institutions;  always  trying  to  see 
the  whole  in  the  part,  the  part  in  the  whole,  and  human 
nature  in  both.  ' 


PART  II 
COMMUNICATION 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  COMMUNICATION 

Meaning  of  Communication — Its  Relation  to  Human  Nature 
— To  Society  at  Large. 

By  Communication  is  here  meant  the  mechanism 
through  which  human  relations  exist  and  develop — all 
the  symbols  of  the  mind,  together  with  the  means  of  con- 
veying them  through  space  and  preserving  them  in  time. 
It  includes  the  expression  of  the  face,  attitude  and  gesture, 
the  tones  of  the  voice,  words,  writing,  printing,  railways, 
telegraphs,  telephones,  and  whatever  else  may  be  the 
latest  achievement  in  the  conquest  of  space  and  time.  All 
these  taken  together,  in  the  intricacy  of  their  actual  com- 
bination, make  up  an  organic  whole  corresponding  to  the 
organic  whole  of  human  thought;  and  everything  in  the 
way  of  mental  growth  has  an  external  existence  therein. 
The  more  closely  we  consider  this  mechanism  the  more 
intimate  will  appear  its  relation  to  the  inner  life  of  man- 
kind, and  nothing  will  more  help  us  to  understand  the 
latter  than  such  consideration. 

There  is  no  sharp  line  between  the  means  of  communi- 
cation and  the  rest  of  the  external  world.  In  a  sense  all 
objects  and  actions  are  symbols  of  the  mind,  and  nearly 
anything  may  be  used  as  a  sign — as  I  may  signify  the 
moon  or  a  squirrel  to  a  child  by  merely  pointing  at  it,  or 

61 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

by  imitating  with  the  voice  the  chatter  of  the  one  or  draw- 
ing an  outUne  of  the  other.  But  there  is  also,  almost 
from  the  first,  a  conventional  development  of  communi- 
cation, springing  out  of  spontaneous  signs  but  soon  losing 
evident  connection  with  them,  a  system  of  standard  sym- 
bols existing  for  the  mere  purpose  of  conveying  thought; 
and  it  is  this  we  have  chiefly  to  consider. 

Without  communication  the  mind  does  not  develop  a 
true  human  nature,  but  remains  in  an  abnormal  and 
nondescript  state  neither  human  nor  properly  brutal. 
This  is  movingly  illustrated  by  the  case  of  Helen  Keller, 
who,  as  all  the  world  knows,  was  cut  off  at  eighteen 
months  from  the  cheerful  ways  of  men  by  the  loss  of  sight 
and  hearing;  and  did  not  renew  the  connection  until  she 
was  nearly  seven  years  old.  Although  her  mind  was  not 
wholly  isolated  during  this  period,  since  she  retained  the 
use  of  a  considerable  number  of  signs  learned  during 
infancy,  yet  her  impulses  were  crude  and  uncontrolled, 
and  her  thought  so  unconnected  that  she  afterward  re- 
membered almost  nothing  that  occurred  before  the  awak- 
ening which  took  place  toward  the  close  of  her  seventh 
year. 

The  story  of  that  awakening,  as  told  by  her  teacher, 
gives  as  vivid  a  picture  as  we  need  have  of  the  significance 
to  the  individual  mind  of  the  general  fact  and  idea  of 
communication.  For  weeks  Miss  Sullivan  had  been 
spelling  words  into  her  hand  which  Helen  had  repeated 
and  associated  with  objects;  but  she  had  not  yet  grasped 
the  idea  of  language  in  general,  the  fact  that  everything 
had  a  name,  and  that  through  names  she  could  share  her 

62 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  COMMUNICATION 

own  experiences  with  others,  and  learn  theirs — the  idea 
that  there  is  fellowship  in  thought.  This  came  quite 
suddenly. 

**This  morning,"  writes  her  teacher,  "while  she  was  washing,  she 
wanted  to  know  the  name  for  water.  ...  I  spelled  w-a-t-e-r  and 
thought  no  more  about  it  until  after  breakfast.  Then  it  occurred  to 
me  that  with  the  help  of  this  new  word  I  might  succeed  in  straightening 
out  the  mug-milk  difficulty  [a  confusion  of  ideas  previously  discussed]. 
We  went  out  into  the  pump-house  and  I  made  Helen  hold  her  mug 
under  the  pump  while  I  pumped.  As  the  cold  water  gushed  forth 
filling  the  mug  I  spelled  w-a-t-e-r  in  Helen's  free  hand.  The  word 
coming  so  close  upon  the  sensation  of  cold  water  rushing  over  her 
hand  seemed  to  startle  her.  She  dropped  the  mug  and  stood  as  one 
transfixed.  A  new  light  came  into  her  face.  She  spelled  water 
several  times.  Then  she  dropped  on  the  ground  and  asked  for  its 
name,  and  pointed  to  the  pump  and  the  trellis,  and  suddenly  turning 
round  she  asked  for  my  name.  I  spelled  'teacher.'  Just  then  the 
nurse  brought  Helen's  little  sister  into  the  pump-house,  and  Helen 
spelled  'baby'  and  pointed  to  the  nurse.  All  the  way  back  to  the 
house  she  was  highly  excited,  and  learned  the  name  of  every  object 
she  touched,  so  that  in  a  few  hours  she  had  added  thirty  new  words 
to  her  vocabulary." 

The  following  day  Miss  Sullivan  writes,  "  Helen  got  up  this  morn- 
ing like  a  radiant  fairy.  She  has  flitted  from  object  to  object,  ask- 
ing the  name  of  everything  and  kissing  me  for  very  gladness."  And 
four  days  later,  "Everything  must  have  a  name  now.  .  .  .  She 
drops  the  signs  and  pantomime  she  used  before,  so  soon  as  she  has 
words  to  supply  their  place,  and  the  acquirement  of  a  new  word 
affords  her  the  liveliest  pleasure.  And  we  notice  that  her  face  grows 
more  expressive  each  day."  * 

This  experience  is  a  type  of  what  happens  more  gradu- 
ally to  all  of  us:  it  is  through  communication  that  we  get 
our  higher  development.  The  faces  and  conversation 
of  our  associates;   books,  letters,  travel,  arts,  and  the  like, 

♦  The  Story  of  My  Life,  316,  317. 
63 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

by  awakening  thought  and  feeling  and  guiding  them  in 
certain  channels,  supply  the  stimulus  and  framework  for 
all  our  growth. 

o 

In  the  same  way,  if  we  take  a  larger  view  and  consider 
the  life  of  a  social  group,  we  see  that  communication, 
including  its  organization  into  literature,  art,  and  institu- 
tions, is  truly  the  outside  or  visible  structure  of  thought, 
as  much  cause  as  effect  of  the  inside  or  conscious  life  of 
men.  All  is  one  growth:  the  symbols,  the  traditions,  the 
institutions  are  projected  from  the  mind,  to  be  sure,  but 
in  the  very  instant  of  their  projection,  and  thereafter,  they 
react  upon  it,  and  in  a  sense  control  it,  stimulating,  de- 
veloping, and  fixing  certain  thoughts  at  the  expense  of 
others  to  which  no  awakening  suggestion  comes.  By  the 
aid  of  this  structure  the  individual  is  a  member  not  only  of 
a  family,  a  class,  and  a  state,  but  of  a  larger  whole  reaching 
back  to  prehistoric  men  whose  thought  has  gone  to  build 
it  up.  In  this  whole  he  Hves  as  in  an  element,  drawing 
from  it  the  materials  of  his  growth  and  adding  to  it  what- 
ever constructive  thought  he  may  express. 

Thus  the  system  of  communication  is  a  tool,  a  pro- 
gressive invention,  whose  improvements  react  upon  man- 
kind and  alter  the  life  of  every  individual  and  institution. 
A  study  of  these  improvements  is  one  of  the  best  ways  by 
which  to  approach  an  understanding  of  the  mental  and 
social  changes  that  are  bound  up  with  them;  because  it 
gives  a  tangible  framework  for  our  ideas — just  as  one  who 
wished  to  grasp  the  organic  character  of  industry  and  com- 
merce might  well  begin  with  a  study  of  the  railway  sys- 
tem and  of  the  amount  and  kind  of  commodities  it  carries, 

64 


THE  SIGNIFICANCE  OF  COMMUNICATION 

proceeding  thence  to  the  more  abstract  transactions  of 
finance. 

And  when  we  come  to  the  modern  era,  especially,  we 
can  understand  nothing  rightly  unless  we  perceive  the 
manner  in  which  the  revolution  in  communication  has 
made  a  new  world  for  us.  So  in  the  pages  that  follow  I 
shall  aim  to  show  what  the  growth  of  intercourse  implies 
in  the  way  of  social  development,  inquiring  particularly 
into  the  effect  of  recent  changes. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  GROWTH  OF  COMMUNICATION 

Pre- Verbal  Communication — The  Rise  of  Speech — Its  Mental 
AND  Social  Function — The  Function  of  Writing — Print- 
ing AND  THE  Modern  World — The  Non- Verbal  Arts. 

The  chief  means  of  what  we  may  call  pre-verbal  com- 
munication are  the  expression  of  the  face — especially  of 
the  mobile  portions  about  the  eyes  and  mouth — the  pitch, 
inflection,  and  emotional  tone  of  the  voice;  and  the  gestures 
of  the  head  and  limbs.  All  of  these  begin  in  involuntary 
movements  but  are  capable  of  becoming  voluntary,  and 
all  are  eagerly  practised  and  interpreted  by  children  long 
before  they  learn  to  speak.  They  are  immediately  joined 
to  action  and  emotion:  the  inflections  of  the  voice,  for 
instance,  play  upon  the  child's  feelings  as  directly  as 
music,  and  are  interpreted  partly  by  an  instinctive  sensi- 
bility. I  have  heard  a  child  seventeen  months  old  using 
her  voice  so  expressively,  though  inarticulately,  that  it 
sounded,  a  little  way  off,  as  if  she  were  carrying  on  an  ani- 
mated conversation.  And  gesture,  such  as  reaching  out 
the  hand,  bending  forward,  turning  away  the  head,  and 
the  like,  springs  directly  from  the  ideas  and  feelings  it 
represents. 

The  human  face,  ''the  shape  and  color  of  a  mind  and 
life,"  is  a  kind  of  epitome  of  society,  and  if  one  could  only 
read  all  that  is  written  in  the  countenances  of  men  as  they 
pass  he  might  find  a  great  deal  of  sociology  in  them.     He- 

66 


THE  GROWTH  OF  COMMUNICATION 

reditary  bias,  family  nurture,  the  print  of  the  school,  cur- 
rent opinion,  contemporary  institutions,  all  are  there, 
drawn  with  a  very  fine  pencil.  If  one  wishes  to  get  a  real 
human  insight  into  the  times  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  for 
example,  he  can  hardly  do  better  than  to  study  the  por- 
trait drawings  of  Holbein;  and  so  of  other  periods,  in- 
cluding our  own,  whose  traits  would  appear  conspicu- 
ously in  a  collection  of  portraits.  Many  people  can  dis- 
criminate particular  classes,  as,  for  instance,  clergymen, 
by  their  expression,  and  not  a  few  will  tell  with  much 
accuracy  what  church  the  latter  belong  to  and  whether 
they  are  of  the  lower  rank  or  in  authority.  Again  there  is 
a  difference,  indescribable,  perhaps,  yet  apparent,  between 
the  look  of  American  and  of  English  youths — still  more  of 
girls — which  reflects  the  differing  social  systems. 

This  sort  of  communication  is,  of  course,  involuntary. 
An  artificial  mechanism  of  communication  originates  when 
man  begins  purposely  to  reproduce  his  own  instinctive 
motions  and  cries,  or  the  sounds,  forms,  and  movements  of 
the  world  about  him,  in  order  to  recall  the  ideas  associated 
with  them.  All  kinds  of  conventional  communication  are 
believed  to  be  rooted  in  these  primitive  imitations,  which, 
by  a  process  not  hard  to  imagine,  extend  and  differentiate 
into  gesture,  speech,  writing,  and  the  special  symbols  of 
the  arts  and  sciences;  so  that  the  whole  exterior  organiza- 
tion of  thought  refers  back  to  these  beginnings. 

We  can  only  conjecture  the  life  of  man,  or  of  his  human- 
izing progenitor,  before  speech  was  achieved;  but  we  may 
suppose  that  facial  expression,  inarticulate  cries  and  songs,* 

*  On  the  probability  that  song  preceded  speech,  see  Darwin, 
Descent  of  Man,  chap.  19. 

67 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

and  a  variety  of  imitative  sounds  and  actions  aroused 
sympathy,  permitted  the  simpler  kinds  of  general  ideas 
to  be  formed,  and  were  the  medium  through  which  tra- 
dition and  convention  had  their  earliest  development. 
It  is  probable  that  artificial  gesture  language  was  well 
organized  before  speech  had  made  much  headway.  Even 
without  words  life  may  have  been  an  active  and  continu- 
ous mental  whole,  not  dependent  for  its  unity  upon  mere 
heredity,  but  bound  together  by  some  conscious  community 
in  the  simpler  sorts  of  thought  and  feeling,  and  by  the 
transmission  and  accumulation  of  these  through  tradition. 
There  was  presumably  cooperation  and  instruction  of  a 
crude  sort  in  which  was  the  germ  of  future  institutions. 

No  one  who  has  observed  children  will  have  any  diffi- 
culty in  conjecturing  the  beginnings  of  speech,  since 
nearly  every  child  starts  in  to  invent  a  language  for  him- 
self, and  only  desists  when  he  finds  that  there  is  one  all 
ready-made  for  him.  There  are  as  many  natural  words 
(if  we  may  call  them  so)  as  there  are  familiar  sounds  with 
definite  associations,  whether  coming  from  human  beings, 
from  animals,  or  from  inanimate  nature.  These  the  child 
instinctively  loves  to  reproduce  and  communicate,  at  first 
in  mere  sport  and  sociability,  then,  as  occasion  arises,  with 
more  definite  meaning.  This  meaning  is  easily  extended 
by  various  sorts  of  association  of  ideas;  the  sounds  them- 
selves are  altered  and  combined  in  usage;  and  thus  speech 
is  w^ell  begun. 

Many  humble  inventors  contribute  to  its  growth,  every 
man,  possibly,  altering  the  heritage  in  proportion  as  he 
puts   his   individuality   into   his    speech.     Variations   of 

68 


THE  GROWTH  OF  COMMUNICATION 

idea  are  preserved  in  words  or  other  symbols,  and  so  stored 
up  in  a  continuing  whole,  constantly  growing  in  bulk  and 
diversity,  which  is,  as  we  have  seen,  nothing  less  than  the 
outside  or  sensible  embodiment  of  human  thought,  in 
which  every  particular  mind  lives  and  grows,  drawing 
from  it  the  material  of  its  own  life,  and  contributing  to  it 
whatever  higher  product  it  may  make  out  of  that  material. 

A  word  is  a  vehicle,  a  boat  floating  down  from  the  past, 
laden  with  the  thought  of  men  we  never  saw;  and  in  com- 
ing to  understand  it  we  enter  not  only  into  the  minds  of 
our  contemporaries,  but  into  the  general  mind  of  humanity 
continuous  through  time.  The  popular  notion  of  learn- 
ing to  speak  is  that  the  child  first  has  the  idea  and  then 
gets  from  others  a  sound  to  use  in  communicating  it;  but 
a  closer  study  shows  that  this  is  hardly  true  even  of  the 
simplest  ideas,  and  is  nearly  the  reverse  of  truth  as  regards 
developed  thought.  In  that  the  word  usually  goes  before, 
leading  and  kindling  the  idea — we  should  not  have  the  latter 
if  we  did  not  have  the  word  first.  **  This  way,"  says  the 
word,  "is  an  interesting  thought:  come  and  find  it." 
And  so  we  are  led  on  to  rediscover  old  knowledge.  Such 
words,  for  instance,  as  good,  right,  truth,  love,  home, 
justice,  beauty,  freedom;  are  powerful  makers  of  what  they 
stand  for. 

A  mind  without  words  would  make  only  such  feeble 
and  uncertain  progress  as  a  traveller  set  down  in  the  midst 
of  a  wilderness  where  there  were  no  paths  or  conveyances 
and  without  even  a  compass.  A  mind  with  them  is  like 
the  same  traveller  in  the  midst  of  civilization,  with  beaten 
roads  and  rapid  vehicles  ready  to  take  him  in  any  direction 

69 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

w^here  men  have  been  before.  As  the  traveller  must  pass 
over  the  ground  in  either  case,  so  the  mind  must  pass 
through  experience,  but  if  it  has  language  it  finds  its  ex- 
perience foreseen,  mapped  out  and  interpreted  by  all  the 
wisdom  of  the  past,  so  that  it  has  not  only  its  own  experi- 
ence but  that  of  the  race — just  as  the  modern  traveller 
sees  not  only  the  original  country  but  the  cities  and  plan- 
tations of  men. 

The  principle  that  applies  to  words  applies  also  to  all 
structures  that  are  built  of  words,  to  literature  and  the 
manifold  traditions  that  it  conveys.  As  the  lines  of  Dante 
are  "foot-paths  for  the  thought  of  Italy,"  so  the  successful 
efforts  of  the  mind  in  every  field  are  preserved  in  their 
symbols  and  become  foot-paths  by  which  other  minds  reach 
the  same  point.  And  this  includes  feeling  as  well  as 
definite  idea.  It  is  almost  the  most  wonderful  thing  about 
language  that  by  something  intangible  in  its  order  and  move- 
ment and  in  the  selection  and  collocation  of  words,  it  can 
transmit  the  very  soul  of  a  man,  making  his  page  live 
when  his  definite  ideas  have  ceased  to  have  value.  In 
this  way  one  gets  from  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  let  us  say, 
not  his  conceits  and  credulities,  but  his  high  and  religious 
spirit,  hovering,  as  it  were,  over  the  page. 

The  achievement  of  speech  is  commonly  and  properly 
regarded  as  the  distinctive  trait  of  man,  as  the  gate  by 
which  he  emerged  from  his  pre-human  state.  It  means 
that,  like  Helen  Keller,  he  has  learned  that  everything  has, 
or  may  have,  a  name,  and  so  has  entered  upon  a  life  of 
conscious  fellowship  in  thought.  It  not  only  permitted 
the  rise  of  a  more  rational  and  human  kind  of  thinking 
and  feeling,  but  was  also  the  basis  of  the  earliest  definite 

70 


THE  GROWTH  OF  COMMUNICATION 

institutions.  A  wider  and  fuller  unity  of  thought  took 
place  in  every  group  where  it  appeared.  Ideas  regard- 
ing the  chief  interests  of  primitive  life — hunting,  warfare, 
marriage,  feasting  and  the  like — were  defined,  communi- 
cated and  extended.  Public  opinion  no  doubt  began  to 
arise  within  the  tribe,  and  crystallized  into  current  sayings 
which  served  as  rules  of  thought  and  conduct;  the  festal 
chants,  if  they  existed  before,  became  articulate  and  his- 
torical. And  when  any  thought  of  special  value  was 
achieved  in  the  group,  it  did  not  perish,  but  was  handed 
on  by  tradition  and  made  the  basis  of  new  gains.  In  this 
way  primitive  wisdom  and  rule  were  perpetuated,  en- 
larged and  improved  until,  in  connection  with  ceremonial 
and  other  symbols,  they  became  such  institutions,  of  gov- 
ernment, marriage,  religion  and  property  as  are  found  in 
every  savage  tribe. 

Nor  must  we  forget  that  this  state  of  things  reacted 
upon  the  natural  capacities  of  man,  perhaps  by  the  direct 
inheritance  of  acquired  social  habits  and  aptitudes,  cer- 
tainly by  the  survival  of  those  who,  having  these,  were 
more  fitted  than  others  to  thrive  in  a  social  life.  In  this 
way  man,  if  he  was  human  when  speech  began  to  be  used, 
rapidly  became  more  so,  and  went  on  accumulating  a 
social  heritage. 

So  the  study  of  speech  reveals  a  truth  which  we  may 
also  reach  in  many  other  ways,  namely,  that  the  growth 
of  the  individual  mind  is  not  a  separate  growth,  but  rather 
a  differentiation  within  the  general  mind.  Our  personal 
life,  so  far  as  we  can  make  out,  has  its  sources  partly  in 
congenital  tendency,  and  partly  in  the  stream  of  communi- 
cation, both  of  which  flow  from  the  corporate  life  of  the 

71 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

race.  The  individual  has  no  better  ground  for  thinking 
of  himself  as  separate  from  humanity  than  he  has  for  think- 
ing of  the  self  he  is  to-day  as  separate  from  the  self  he  was 
yesterday;  the  continuity  being  no  more  certain  in  the 
one  case  than  in  the  other.  If  it  be  said  that  he  is  separate 
because  he  feels  separate,  it  may  be  answered  that  to  the 
infant  each  moment  is  separate,  and  that  we  know  our  per- 
sonal life  to  be  a  whole  only  through  the  growth  of  thought 
and  memory.  In  the  same  way  the  sense  of  a  larger  or 
social  wholeness  is  perhaps  merely  a  question  of  our 
growing  into  more  vivid  and  intelligent  consciousness  of 
a  unity  which  is  already  clear  enough  to  reflective  observa- 
tion. 

It  is  the  social  function  of  writing,  by  giving  ideas  a 
lasting  record,  to  make  possible  a  more  certain,  continu- 
ous and  diversified  growth  of  the  human  mind.  It  does 
for  the  race  very  much  what  it  does  for  the  individual. 
When  the  student  has  a  good  thought  he  writes  it  down, 
so  that  it  may  be  recalled  at  will  and  made  the  starting- 
point  for  a  better  thought  in  the  same  direction;  and  so 
mankind  at  large  records  and  cherishes  its  insights. 

Until  writing  is  achieved  the  accumulation  of  ideas  de- 
pends upon  oral  tradition,  the  capacity  of  which  is  meas- 
ured by  the  interest  and  memory  of  the  people  who  trans- 
mit it.  It  must,  therefore,  confine  itself  chiefly  to  ideas 
and  sentiments  for  which  there  is  a  somewhat  general  and 
constant  demand,  such  as  popular  stories — like  the  Homeric 
legends — chants,  proverbs,  maxims  and  the  like.  It  is 
true  that  tradition  becomes  more  or  less  specialized  in 
families  and  castes — as  we  see,  for  instance,  in  the  wide- 

12 


THE  GROWTH  OF  COMMUNICATION 

spread  existence  of  a  hereditary  priesthood — but  this 
specialization  cannot  be  very  elaborate  or  very  secure  in 
its  continuance.  There  can  hardly  be,  without  writing, 
any  science  or  any  diversified  literature.  These  require 
a  means  by  which  important  ideas  can  be  passed  on  un- 
impaired to  men  distant  in  time  and  space  from  their 
authors.  We  may  safely  pronounce,  with  Gibbon,  that 
"without  some  species  of  writing  no  people  has  ever  pre- 
served the  faithful  annals  of  their  history,  ever  made  any 
considerable  progress  in  the  abstract  sciences,  or  ever 
possessed,  in  any  tolerable  degree  of  perfection,  the  use- 
ful and  agreeable  arts  of  life."* 

Nor  can  stable  and  extended  government  be  organized 
without  it,  for  such  government  requires  a  constitution  of 
some  sort,  a  definite  and  permanent  body  of  law  and  cus- 
tom, embracing  the  wisdom  of  the  past  regarding  the 
maintenance  of  social  order. 

It  is  quite  the  same  with  religious  systems.  The  his- 
torical religions  are  based  upon  Scriptures,  the  essential 
part  of  which  is  the  recorded  teaching  of  the  founder  and 
his  immediate  disciples,  and  without  such  a  record 
Christianity,  Buddhism  or  Mohammedanism  could  never 
have  been  more  than  a  small  and  transient  sect.  There 
may  well  have  been  men  of  religious  genius  among  our 
illiterate  forefathers,  but  it  was  impossible  that  they  should 
found  endurixig  systems. 

The  whole  structure  and  progress  of  modern  life  evi- 
dently rests  upon  the  preservation,  in  writing,  of  the 
achievements  of  the  antique  mind,  upon  the  records, 
especially,  of  Judea,  Greece  and  Rome.  To  inquire  what 
*  Decline  and  Fall,  Milman-Smith  edition,  i,  354. 

73 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

we  should  have  been  without  these  would  be  like  asking 
what  we  should  have  been  if  our  parents  had  not  existed. 
Writing  made  history  possible,  and  the  man  of  history 
with  his  complex  institutions.  It  enabled  a  rapid  and 
secure  enlargement  of  that  human  nature  which  had 
previously  been  confined  within  small  and  unstable  groups. 

If  writing,  by  giving  thought  permanence,  brought  in 
the  earlier  civilization,  printing,  by  giving  it  diffusion 
opened  the  doors  of  the  modern  world. 

Before  its  advent  access  to  the  records  of  the  race  was 
limited  to  a  learned  class,  who  thus  held  a  kind  of  monopoly 
of  the  traditions  upon  which  the  social  system  rested. 
Throughout  the  earlier  Middle  Ages,  for  example,  the 
clergy,  or  that  small  portion  of  the  clergy  who  were  edu- 
cated, occupied  this  position  in  Europe,  and  their  system 
was  the  one  animate  and  wide-reaching  mental  organiza- 
tion of  the  period.  For  many  centuries  it  was  rare  for  a 
layman,  of  whatever  rank,  to  know  how  to  sign  his  name. 
Through  the  Latin  language,  written  and  spoken,  which 
would  apparently  have  perished  had  it  not  been  for  the 
Church,  the  larger  continuity  and  cooperation  of  the 
human  mind  was  maintained.  Those  who  could  read 
it  had  a  common  literature  and  a  vague  sense  of  unity  and 
brotherhood.  Roman  ideas  were  preserved,  however 
imperfectly,  and  an  ideal  Rome  lived  in  the  Papacy  and 
the  Empire.  Education,  naturally,  was  controlled  by 
the  clergy,  who  were  also  intrusted  with  political  corre- 
spondence and  the  framing  of  laws.  As  is  well  known 
they  somewhat  recast  the  traditions  in  their  own  in- 
terest, and  were  aided  by  their  control   of   the  commu- 

74 


THE  GROWTH  OF  COMMUNICATION 

nicating  medium  in  becoming   the  dominant   power   in 
Europe. 

Printing  means  democracy,  because  it  brings  knowledge 
within  the  reach  of  the  common  people;  and  knowledge, 
in  the  long  run,  is  sure  to  make  good  its  claim  to  power. 
It  brings  to  the  individual  whatever  part  in  the  heritage  of 
ideas  he  is  fit  to  receive.  The  world  of  thought,  and 
eventually  the  world  of  action,  comes  gradually  under  the 
rule  of  a  true  aristocracy  of  intelligence  and  character, 
in  place  of  an  artificial  one  created  by  exclusive  opportunity. 

Everywhere  the  spread  of  printing  was  followed  by  a 
general  awakening  due  to  the  unsettling  suggestions 
which  it  scattered  abroad.  Political  and  religious  agita- 
tion, by  no  means  unknown  before,  was  immensely 
stimulated,  and  has  continued  unabated  to  the  present 
time.  **The  whole  of  this  movement,"  says  Mr.  H.  C. 
Lea,  speaking  of  the  liberal  agitations  of  the  early  six- 
teenth century,  *'had  been  rendered  possible  by  the  in- 
vention of  printing,  which  facilitated  so  enormously  the 
diffusion  of  intelligence,  which  enabled  public  opinion 
to  form  and  express  itself,  and  which,  by  bringing  into 
communication  minds  of  similar  ways  of  thinking,  af- 
forded opportunity  for  combined  action."  "When, 
therefore,  on  October  31,  1517,  Luther's  fateful  theses 
were  hung  on  the  church  door  at  Wittenberg,  they  were, 
as  he  tells  us,  known  in  a  fortnight  throughout  Germany; 
and  in  a  month  they  had  reached  Rome  and  were  being 
read  in  every  school  and  convent  in  Europe — a  result 
manifestly  impossible  without  the  aid  of  the  printing 
press."* 

*  The  Cambridge  Modern  History,  i,  684,  685. 

75 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

The  printed  page  is  also  the  door  by  which  the  in- 
dividual, in  our  own  time,  enters  the  larger  rooms  of  life. 
A  good  book,  "the  precious  life  blood  of  a  master  spirit 
stored  upon  purpose  to  a  life  beyond  life,"*  is  almost  always 
the  channel  through  which  uncommon  minds  get  incite- 
msnt  and  aid  to  lift  themselves  into  the  higher  thought  that 
other  uncommon  minds  have  created.  "In  study  we  hold 
converse  with  the  wise,  in  action  usually  with  the  foolish/'t 
While  the  mass  of  mankind  about  us  is  ever  common- 
place, there  is  always,  in  our  day,  a  more  select  society 
not  far  away  for  one  who  craves  it,  and  a  man  like  Abra- 
ham Lincoln,  whose  birth  would  have  meant  hopeless 
serfdom  a  few  centuries  ago,  may  get  from  half  a  dozen 
books  aspirations  which  lead  him  out  to  authority  and 
beneficence. 

While  spoken  language,  along  with  the  writing  and 
printing  by  which  it  is  preserved  and  disseminated,  is  the 
main  current  of  communication,  there  are  from  the  start 
many  side  channels. 

Thus  among  savage  or  barbarous  peoples  we  every- 
where find,  beside  gesture  language,  the  use  of  a  multi- 
tude of  other  symbols,  such  as  the  red  arrow  for  war,  the 
pipe  of  peace,  signal  fires,  notched  sticks,  knotted  cords, 
totems,  and,  among  nations  more  advanced  in  culture, 
coats-of-arms,  flags  and  an  infinite  diversity  of  symbolic 
ritual.  There  is,  indeed,  a  world  of  signs  outside  of 
language,  most  of  which,  however,  we  may  pass  by,  since 
its  general  nature  is  obvious  enough. 

*  Milton,  Areopagitica. 

t  Bacon,  Antitheta  on  Studies. 

76 


THE  GROWTH  OF  COMMUNICATION 

The  arts  of  painting,  sculpture,  music,  and  architecture, 
considered  as  communication,  have  two  somewhat  differ- 
ent functions :  First,  as  mere  picture  or  image  writing,  con- 
veying ideas  that  could  also  be  conveyed  (though  with  a 
difference)  in  words;  and,  second,  as  the  vehicle  of  peculiar 
phases  of  sentiment  incommunicable  in  any  other  way. 
These  two  were  often,  indeed  usually,  combined  in  the 
art  of  the  past.  In  modern  times  the  former,  because  of 
the  diffusion  of  literacy,  has  become  of  secondary  impor- 
tance. 

Of  the  picture-writing  function  the  mosaics,  in  colors 
on  a  gold  ground,  that  cover  the  inner  walls  of  St.  Mark's 
at  Venice  are  a  familiar  instance.  They  set  forth  in 
somewhat  rude  figures,  helped  out  by  symbols,  the  whole 
system  of  Christian  theology  as  it  was  then  understood. 
They  were  thus  an  illuminated  book  of  sacred  learning 
through  which  the  people  entered  into  the  religious  tra- 
dition. The  same  tradition  is  illustrated  in  the  sculpture 
of  the  cathedrals  of  Chartres  and  Rheims,  together  with 
much  other  matter — secular  history,  typified  by  figures 
of  the  kings  of  France;  moral  philosophy,  with  virtues 
and  vices,  rewards  and  punishments;  and  emblems  of 
husbandry  and  handicraft.  Along  with  these  sculptures 
went  the  pictured  windows,  the  sacred  relics — which,  as 
Gibbon  says,  "fixed  and  inflamed  the  devotion  of  the 
faithful''* — the  music,  and  the  elaborate  pageants  and 
ritual;  all  working  together  as  one  rich  sign,  in  which 
was  incarnated  the  ideal  life  of  the  times. 

A  subtler  function  of  the  non-verbal  arts  is  to  com- 
municate matter  that  could  not  go  by  any  other  road 

*  Decline  and  Fall,  Milman-Smith  edition,  iii,  428. 
77 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

especially  certain  sorts  of  sentiment  which  are  thus  per- 
petuated and  diffused. 

One  of  the  simplest  and  most  fruitful  examples  of  this 
is  the  depiction  of  human  forms  and  faces  which  embody, 
as  if  by  living  presence,  the  nobler  feelings  and  aspirations 
of  the  time.  Such  works,  in  painting  or  sculpture,  re- 
main as  symbols  by  the  aid  of  which  like  sentiments  grow 
up  in  the  minds  of  whomsoever  become  familiar  with  them. 
Sentiment  is  cumulative  in  human  history  in  the  same 
manner  as  thought,  though  less  definitely  and  surely,  and 
Christian  feeling,  as  it  grew  and  flourished  in  the  Middle 
Ages,  was  fostered  by  painting  as  much,  perhaps,  as  by 
the  Scriptures.  And  so  Greek  sculpture,  from  the  time 
of  the  humanists  down  through  Winckelmann  and  Goethe 
to  the  present  day,  has  been  a  channel  by  which  Greek 
sentiment  has  flowed  into  modern  life. 

This  record  of  human  feeling  in  expressive  forms  and 
faces,  as  in  the  madonnas  and  saints  of  Raphael,  is  called 
by  some  critics  ''illustration'';  and  they  distinguish  it 
from  ''decoration,"  which  includes  all  those  elements  in 
a  work  of  art  which  exist  not  to  transmit  something  else 
but  for  their  own  more  immediate  value,  such  as  beauty  of 
color,  form,  composition  and  suggested  movement.  This 
latter  is  communication  also,  appealing  to  vivid  but  other- 
wise inarticulate  phases  of  human  instinct.  Each  art 
can  convey  a  unique  kind  of  sentiment  and  has  "its  own 
peculiar  and  incommunicable  sensuous  charm,  its  own 
special  mode  of  reaching  the  imagination."  In  a  picture 
the  most  characteristic  thing  is  "that  true  pictorial  qual- 
ity ..  .  the  inventive  or  creative  handling  of  pure  line 
and  color,  which,  as  almost  always  in  Dutch  painting,  a^ 

78 


THE  GROWTTH  OF  COMMUNICATION 

often  also  in  the  works  of  Titian  or  Veronese,  is  quite 
independent  of  anything  definitely  poetical  in  the  subject 
it  accompanies."  in  music  ^'the  musical  charm — that  es- 
sential music,  which  presents  no  words,  no  matter  of 
sentiment  or  thought,  separable  from  the  special  form 
in  which  it  is  conveyed  to  us."*  And  so  with  architecture, 
an  art  peculiarly  close  to  social  organization,  so  that  in 
many  cases — as  in  the  Place  of  Venice — the  spirit  of  a 
social  system  has  been  visibly  raised  up  in  stone. 

It  needs  no  argument,  I  suppose,  to  show  that  these  arts 
are  no  less  essential  to  the  growth  of  the  human  spirit  than 
literature  or  government. 

*  Walter  Pater,  Essay  on  the  School  of  Giorgione. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MODERN    COMMUNICATION:     ENLARGEMENT    AND 
ANIMATION 

Character  of  Recent  Changes — Their  General  Effect— The 
Change  in  the  United  States — Organized  Gossip — Public 
Opinion,  Democracy,  Internationalism — The  Value  of 
Diffusion — Enlargement  of  Feeling — Conclusion. 

The  changes  that  have  taken  place  since  the  beginning 
of  the  nineteenth  century  are  such  as  to  constitute  a  new 
epoch  in  communication,  and  in  the  whole  system  of 
society.  They  deserve,  therefore,  careful  consideration, 
not  so  much  in  their  mechanical  aspect,  which  is  familiar 
to  every  one,  as  in  their  operation  upon  the  larger  mind. 

If  one  were  to  analyze  the  mechanism  of  intercourse, 
he  might,  perhaps,  distinguish  four  factors  that  mainly 
contribute  to  its  efficiency,  namely: 

Expressiveness,  or  the  range  of  ideas  and  feelings  it  is 
competent  to  carry. 

Permanence  of  record,  or  the  overcoming  of  time. 

Swiftness,  or  the  overcoming  of  space. 

Diffusion,  or  access  to  all  classes  of  men. 

Now  while  gains  have  no  doubt  been  made  in  express- 
iveness, as  in  the  enlargement  of  our  vocabulary  to  em- 
brace the  ideas  of  modern  science;  and  even  in  permanence 
of  record,  for  scientific  and  other  special  purposes;  yet 
certainly  the  long  steps  of  recent  times  have  been  made 

80 


MODERN  COMMUNICATION:  ENLARGEMENT 

in  the  direction  of  swiftness  and  diffusion.  For  most 
purposes  our  speech  is  no  better  than  in  the  age  of  EHza- 
beth,  if  so  good;  but  what  facihty  we  have  gained  in  the 
appHcation  of  it!  The  cheapening  of  printing,  permitting 
an  inundation  of  popular  books,  magazines  and  news- 
papers, has  been  supplemented  by  the  rise  of  the  modern 
postal  system  and  the  conquest  of  distance  by  railroads, 
telegraphs  and  telephones.  And  along  with  these  ex- 
tensions of  the  spoken  or  written  word  have  come  new 
arts  of  reproduction,  such  as  photography,  photo-en- 
graving, phonography  and  the  like — of  greater  social  im- 
port than  we  realize — by  which  new  kinds  of  impression 
from  the  visible  or  audible  world  may  be  fixed  and  dissem- 
inated. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  these  changes  are  the  basis, 
from  a  mechanical  standpoint,  of  nearly  everything  that 
is  characteristic  in  the  psychology  of  modern  life.  In  a 
general  way  they  mean  the  expansion  of  human  nature, 
that  is  to  say,  of  its  power  to  express  itself  in  social  wholes. 
They  make  it  possible  for  society  to  be  organized  more  and 
more  on  the  higher  faculties  of  man,  on  intelligence  and 
sympathy,  rather  than  on  authority,  caste,  and  routine. 
They  mean  freedom,  outlook,  indefinite  possibility.  The 
public  consciousness,  instead  of  being  confined  as  regards 
its  more  active  phases  to  local  groups,  extends  by  even 
steps  with  that  give-and-take  of  suggestions  that  the  new 
intercourse  makes  possible,  until  wide  nations,  and  finally 
the  w^orld  itself,  may  be  included  in  one  lively  mental 
whole. 

The  general  character  of  this  change  is  well  expressed 

81 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

by  the  two  words  enlargement  and  animation.  Social  con- 
tacts  are  extended  in  space  and  quickened  in  time,  and  in 
the  same  degree  the  mental  unity  they  imply  becomes 
wider  and  more  alert.  The  individual  is  broadened  by 
coming  into  relation  with  a  larger  and  more  various  life, 
and  he  is  kept  stirred  up,  sometimes  to  excess,  by  the 
multitude  of  changing  suggestions  which  this  life  brings 
to  him. 

From  whatever  point  of  view  we  study  modern  society 
to  compare  it  with  the  past  or  to  forecast  the  future,  we 
ought  to  keep  at  least  a  subconsciousness  of  this  radical 
change  in  mechanism,  without  allowing  for  which  noth- 
ing else  can  be  understood. 

In  the  United  States,  for  instance,  at  the  close  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  public  consciousness  of  any  active 
kind  was  confined  to  small  locaHties.  Travel  was  slow, 
uncomfortable  and  costly,  and  people  undertaldng  a  con- 
siderable journey  often  made  their  wills  beforehand.  The 
newspapers,  appearing  weekly  in  the  larger  towns,  were 
entirely  lacking  in  what  we  should  call  news;  and  the 
number  of  letters  sent  during  a  year  in  all  the  thirteen 
states  was  much  less  than  that  now  handled  by  the  New 
York  office  in  a  single  day.  People  are  far  more  alive 
to-day  to  what  is  going  on  in  China,  if  it  happens  to  inter- 
est them,  than  they  were  then  to  events  a  hundred  miles 
away.  The  isolation  of  even  large  towns  from  the  rest  of 
the  world,  and  the  consequent  introversion  of  men's 
minds  upon  local  concerns,  was  something  we  can  hardly 
conceive.  In  the  country  ''the  environment  of  the  farm 
was  the  neighborhood;    the  environment  of  the  village 

82 


MODERN  COMMUNICATION:  ENLARGEMENT 

was  the  encircling  farms  and  the  local  tradition;  .  .  .  few 
conventions  assembled  for  discussion  and  common  action; 
educational  centres  did  not  radiate  the  shock  of  a  new 
jntellectual  Hfe  to  every  hamlet;  federations  and  unions 
did  not  bind  men,  near  and  remote,  into  that  fellowship 
that  makes  one  composite  type  of  many  human  sorts. 
It  was  an  age  of  sects,  intolerant  from  lack  of  acquaint- 
ance."* 

The  change  to  the  present  regime  of  railroads,  tele- 
graphs, daily  papers,  telephones  and  the  rest  has  involved 
a  revolution  in  every  phase  of  life;  in  commerce,  in  poli- 
tics, in  education,  even  in  mere  sociability  and  gossip — 
this  revolution  always  consisting  in  an  enlargement  and 
quickening  of  the  kind  of  life  in  question. 

Probably  there  is  nothing  in  this  new  mechanism  quite 
so  pervasive  and  characteristic  as  the  daily  newspaper, 
which  is  as  vehemently  praised  as  it  is  abused,  and  in  both 
cases  with  good  reason.  What  a  strange  practice  it  is, 
when  you  think  of  it,  that  a  man  should  sit  down  to  his 
breakfast  table  and,  instead  of  conversing  with  his  wife, 
and  children,  hold  before  his  face  a  sort  of  screen  on  which 
is  inscribed  a  world-wide  gossip! 

The  essential  function  of  the  newspaper  is,  of  course, 
to  serve  as  a  bulletin  of  important  news  and  a  medium 
for  the  interchange  of  ideas,  through  the  printing  of  inter- 
views, letters,  speeches  and  editorial  comment.  In  this 
way  it  is  indispensable  to  the  organization  of  the  public 
mind. 

The  bulk  of  its  matter,  however,  is  best  described  by 
*  W.  L.  Anderson,  The  Country  Town,  209,  210. 

83 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

the  phrase  organized  gossip.  The  sort  of  intercourse 
that  people  formerly  carried  on  at  cross-road  stores  or 
over  the  back  fence,  has  now  attained  the  dignity  of  print 
and  an  imposing  system.  That  we  absorb  a  flood  of  this 
does  not  necessarily  mean  that  our  minds  are  degenerate, 
but  merely  that  we  are  gratifying  an  old  appetite  in  a  new 
way.  Henry  James  speaks  with  a  severity  natural  to 
literary  sensibility  of  ''the  ubiquitous  newspaper  face, 
with  its  mere  monstrosity  and  deformity  of  feature,  and 
the  vast  open  mouth,  adjusted  as  to  the  chatter  of  Bedlam, 
that  flings  the  flood-gates  of  vulgarity  farther  back  [in 
America]  than  anywhere  else  on  earth.''*  But  after  all 
is  it  any  more  vulgar  than  the  older  kind  of  gossip  ?  No 
doubt  it  seems  worse  for  venturing  to  share  with  literature 
the  use  of  the  printed  word. 

That  the  bulk  of  the  contents  of  the  newspaper  is  of 
the  nature  of  gossip  may  be  seen  by  noting  three  traits 
which  together  seem  to  make  a  fair  definition  of  that  word. 
It  is  copious,  designed  to  occupy,  without  exerting,  the 
mind.  It  consists  mostly  of  personalities  and  appeals  to 
superficial  emotion.  It  is  untrustworthy — except  upon 
a  few  matters  of  moment  which  the  public  are  likely  to 
follow  up  and  verify.  These  traits  any  one  who  is  curious 
may  substantiate  by  a  study  of  his  own  morning  journal. 

There  is  a  better  and  a  worse  side  to  this  enlargement  of 
gossip.  On  the  former  we  may  reckon  the  ^?.ct  that  it 
promotes  a  widespread  sociability  and  sense  of  commu- 
nity; we  know  that  people  all  over  the  country  are  laughing 
at  the  same  jokes  or  thrilling  with  the  same  mild  excite- 
ment over  the  foot-ball  game,  and  we  absorb  a  conviction 

*  The  Mannerti  of  American  Women,  Harper's  Bazar,  May,  1907. 

84 


MODERN  COMMUNICATION:  ENLARGEMENT 

that  they  are  good  fellows  much  like  ourselves.  It  also 
tends  powerfully,  through  the  fear  of  publicity,  to  enforce 
a  popular,  somewhat  vulgar,  but  sound  and  human 
standard  of  morality.  On  the  other  hand  it  fosters  super- 
ficiality and  commonplace  in  every  sphere  of  thought  and 
feeling,  and  is,  of  course,  the  antithesis  of  literature  and 
of  all  high  or  fine  spiritual  achievement.  It  stands  for 
diffusion  as  opposed  to  distinction. 

In  politics  communication  makes  possible  public  opin- 
ion, which,  when  organized,  is  democracy.  The  whole 
growth  of  this,  and  of  the  popular  education  and  en- 
lightenment that  go  with  it,  is  immediately  dependent 
upon  the  telegraph,  the  newspaper  and  the  fast  mail,  for 
there  can  be  no  popular  mind  upon  questions  of  the  day, 
over  wide  areas,  except  as  the  people  are  promptly  in- 
formed of  such  questions  and  are  enabled  to  exchange 
views  regarding  them. 
^  Our  government,  under  the  Constitution,  was  not 
^originally  a  democracy,  and  was  not  intended  to  be  so 
by  the  men  that  framed  it.  It  was  expected  to  be  a  repre- 
sentative republic,  the  people  choosing  men  of  character 
and  wisdom,  who  would  proceed  to  the  capital,  inform 
themselves  there  upon  current  questions,  and  deliberate 
and  decide  regarding  them.  That  the  people  might  think 
and  act  more  directly  was  not  foreseen.  The  Constitution 
is  not  democratic  in  spirit,  and,  as  Mr.  Brycc  has  noted,* 
might  under  different  conditions  have  become  the  basis 
of  an  aristocratic  system. 

That  any  system  could  have  held  even  the  original 
*  The  American  Commonwealth,  chap.  26. 

85 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

thirteen  states  in  firm  union  without  the  advent  of  mod- 
ern communication  is  very  doubtful.  Pohtical  philosophy, 
from  Plato  to  Montesquieu,  had  taught  that  free  states 
must  be  small,  and  Frederick  the  Great  is  said  to  have 
ridiculed  the  idea  of  one  extending  from  Maine  to  Georgia. 
*' A  large  empire,'^  says  Montesquieu,  '^  supposes  a  despotic 
authority  in  the  person  who  governs.  It  is  necessary  that 
the  quickness  of  the  prince's  resolutions  should  supply 
the  distance  of  the  places  they  are  sent  to."* 

Democracy  has  arisen  here,  as  it  seems  to  be  arising 
everywhere  in  the  civilized  world,  not,  chiefly,  because  of 
changes  in  the  formal  constitution,  but  as  the  outcome  of 
conditions  which  make  it  natural  for  the  people  to  have 
and  to  express  a  consciousness  regarding  questions  of  the 
day.  It  is  said  by  those  who  know  China  that  while  that 
country  was  at  war  with  Japan  the  majority  of  the  Chinese 
were  unaware  that  a  war  was  in  progress.  Such  igno- 
rance makes  the  sway  of  public  opinion  impossible;  and, 
conversely,  it  seems  likely  that  no  state,  having  a  vigorous 
people,  can  long  escape  that  sway  except  by  repressing 
the  interchange  of  thought.  When  the  people  have  in- 
formation and  discussion  they  will  have  a  will,  and  this 
must  sooner  or  later  get  hold  of  the  institutions  of  society. 

One  is  often  impressed  with  the  thought  that  there 
ought  to  be  some  wider  name  for  the  modern  movement 
than  democracy,  some  name  which  should  more  distinctly 
suggest  the  enlargement  and  quickening  of  the  general 
mind,  of  which  the  formal  rule  of  the  people  is  only  one 
among  many  manifestations.  The  current  of  new  life 
that  is  sweeping  with  augmenting  force  through  the  older 
*  The  Spirit  of  Laws,  book  viii,  chap.  19. 
86 


MODERN  COMMUNICATION:  ENLARGEMENT 

structures  of  society,  now  carrying  them  away,  now  leav- 
ing them  outwardly  undisturbed,  has  no  adequate  name. 

Popular  education  is  an  inseparable  part  of  all  this:  the 
individual  must  have  at  least  those  arts  of  reading  and 
writing  without  which  he  can  hardly  be  a  vital  member 
of  the  new  organism.  And  that  further  development  of 
education,  rapidly  becoming  a  conscious  aim  of  modern 
society,  which  strives  to  give  to  every  person  a  special 
training  in  preparation  for  whatever  function  he  may  have 
aptitude  for,  is  also  a  phase  of  the  freer  and  more  flexible 
organization  of  mental  energy.  The  same  enlargement 
runs  through  all  life,  including  fashion  and  other  trivial 
or  fugitive  kinds  of  intercourse.  And  the  widest  phase 
of  all,  upon  whose  momentousness  I  need  not  dwell,  is 
that  rise  of  an  international  consciousness,  in  literature, 
in  science  and,  finally,  in  politics,  which  holds  out  a  trust- 
worthy promise  of  the  indefinite  enlargement  of  justice 
and  amity. 

This  unification  of  life  by  a  freer  course  of  thought  is 
not  only  contemporaneous,  overcoming  space,  but  also 
historical,  bringing  the  past  into  the  present,  and  making 
every  notable  achievement  of  the  race  a  possible  factor  in 
its  current  life — as  when,  by  skilful  reproduction  the  work 
of  a  mediaeval  painter  is  brought  home  to  people  dwelling 
five  hundred  years  later  on  the  other  side  of  the  globe. 
Our  time  is  one  of  ''large  discourse,  looking  before  and 
after." 

There  are  remarkable  possibilities  in  this  diffusive 
vigor.  Never,  certainly,  were  great  masses  of  men  so 
rapidly  rising  to  higher  levels  as  now.     There  are  the 

87 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

same  facilities  for  disseminating  improvement  in  mind  and 
manners  as  in  material  devices;  and  the  new  communi- 
cation has  spread  like  morning  light  over  the  world,  awak- 
ening, enlightening,  enlarging,  and  filling  with  expectation. 
Human  nature  desires  the  good,  when  it  once  perceives 
it,  and  in  all  that  is  easily  understood  and  imitated  great 
headway  is  making. 

Nor  is  there,  as  I  shall  try  to  show  later,  any  good  reason 
to  think  that  the  conditions  are  permanently  unfavorable 
to  the  rise  of  special  and  select  types  of  excellence.  The 
same  facility  of  communication  which  animates  millions 
with  the  emulation  of  common  models,  also  makes  it  easy 
for  more  discriminating  minds  to  unite  in  small  groups. 
The  general  fact  is  that  human  nature  is  set  free;  in  time 
it  will  no  doubt  justify  its  freedom. 

The  enlargement  affects  not  only  thought  but  feeling, 
favoring  the  growth  of  a  sense  of  common  humanity,  of 
moral  unity,  between  nations,  races  and  classes.  Among 
members  of  a  communicating  whole  feeling  may  not  always 
be  friendly,  but  it  must  be,  in  a  sense,  sympathetic,  in- 
volving some  consciousness  of  the  other's  point  of  view. 
Even  the  animosities  of  modern  nations  are  of  a  human 
and  imaginative  sort,  not  the  blind  animal  hostility  of  a 
more  primitive  age.  They  are  resentments,  and  resent- 
ment, as  Charles  Lamb  says,  is  of  the  family  of  love. 

The  relations  between  persons  or  communities  that  are 
without  mutual  understanding  are  necessarily  on  a  low 
plane.  There  may  be  indifference,  or  a  blind  anger  due 
to  interference,  or  there  may  be  a  good-natured  tolerance; 
but  there  is  no  consciousness  of  a  common  nature  to  warm 


MODERN  COMMUNICATION:  ENLARGEMENT 

up  the  kindly  sentiments.  A  really  human  fellow-feeling 
was  anciently  confined  within  the  tribe,  men  outside  not 
being  felt  as  members  of  a  common  whole.  The  alien 
was  commonly  treated  as  a  more  or  less  useful  or  dangerous 
animal — destroyed,  despoiled  or  enslaved.  Even  in  these 
days  we  care  little  about  people  whose  life  is  not  brought 
home  to  us  by  some  kind  of  sympathetic  contact.  We 
may  read  statistics  of  the  miserable  life  of  the  Italians 
and  Jews  in  New  York  and  Chicago;  of  bad  housing, 
sweatshops  and  tuberculosis;  but  we  care  little  more 
about  them  than  we  do  about  the  sufferers  from  the  Black 
Death,  unless  their  life  is  realized  to  us  in  some  human 
way,  either  by  personal  contact,  or  by  pictures  and  imag- 
inative description. 

And  we  are  getting  this  at  the  present  time.  The  re- 
sources of  modern  communication  are  used  in  stimulating 
and  gratifying  our  interest  in  every  phase  of  human  life. 
Russians,  Japanese,  Filipinos,  fishermen,  miners,  mil- 
Uonaires,  criminals,  tramps  and  opium-eaters  are  brought 
home  to  us.  The  press  well  understands  that  nothing 
human  is  alien  to  us  if  it  is  only  made  comprehensible. 

With  a  mind  enlarged  and  suppled  by  such  training, 
the  man  of  to-day  inclines  to  look  for  a  common  nature 
everywhere,  and  to  demand  that  the  whole  world  shall  be 
brought  under  the  sway  of  common  principles  of  kindness 
and  justice.  He  wants  to  see  international  strife  allayed — •  ! 
in  such  a  way,  however,  as  not  to  prevent  the  expansion 
of  capable  races  and  the  survival  of  better  types;  he 
wishes  the  friction  of  classes  reduced  and  each  interest 
fairly  treated — but  without  checking  individuality  and  en- 
terprise.    There  was  never  so  general  an  eagerness  that 

89 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

righteousness  should  prevail;   the  chief  matter  of  dispute 
is  upon  the  principles  under  which  it  may  be  established. 

The  work  of  communication  in  enlarging  human  nature 
is  partly  immediate,  through  facilitating  contact,  but  even 
more  it  is  indirect,  through  favoring  the  increase  of  in- 
telligence, the  decline  of  mechanical  and  arbitrary  forms 
of  organization,  and  the  rise  of  a  more  humane  type  of 
society.  History  may  be  regarded  as  a  record  of  the  strug- 
gle of  man  to  realize  his  aspirations  through  organization; 
and  the  new  communication  is  an  efficient  tool  for  this 
purpose.  Assuming  that  the  human  heart  and  conscience, 
restricted  only  by  the  difficulties  of  organization,  is  the 
arbiter  of  what  institutions  are  to  become,  we  may  ex* 
pect  the  facility  of  intercourse  to  be  the  starting-point  of  an 
era  of  moral  progress. 


CHAPTER  IX 
MODERN  COMMUNICATION:  INDIVIDUALITY 

The  Question — Why  Communication  Should  Foster  Individu- 
ality— The  Contrary  or  Dead-Level  Theory — Reconcili- 
ation OF  these  Views — The  Outlook  as  Regards  Individu- 
ality. 

It  is  a  question  of  utmost  interest  whether  these  changes 
do  or  do  not  contribute  to  the  independence  and  pro- 
ductivity of  the  individual  mind.  Do  they  foster  a  self- 
reliant  personality,  capable  at  need  of  pursuing  high  and 
rare  aims,  or  have  they  rather  a  levelling  tendency,  re- 
pressive of  what  is  original  and  characteristic?  There 
are  in  fact  opposite  opinions  regarding  this  matter,  in 
support  of  either  of  which  numerous  expressions  by  writers 
of  some  weight  might  be  collected. 

From  one  point  of  view  it  would  appear  that  the  new 
communication  ought  to  encourage  individuality  of  all 
kinds;  it  makes  it  easier  to  get  away  from  a  given  environ- 
ment and  to  find  support  in  one  more  congenial.  The 
world  has  grown  more  various  and  at  the  same  time  more 
accessible,  so  that  one  having  a  natural  bent  should  be 
the  more  able  to  find  influences  to  nourish  it.  If  he  has 
a  turn,  say,  for  entomology,  he  can  readily,  through 
journals,  correspondence  and  meetings,  get  in  touch  with 
a  group  of  men  similarly  inclined,  and  with  a  congenial 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

tradition.  And  so  with  any  sect  of  religion,  or  politics, 
or  art,  or  what  not;  if  there  are  in  the  civilized  world  a 
few  like-minded  people  it  is  comparatively  easy  for  them 
to  get  together  in  spirit  and  encourage  one  another  in 
their  peculiarity. 

It  is  a  simple  and  recognized  principle  of  development 
that  an  enlarged  life  in  the  organism  commonly  involves 
greater  differentiation  in  its  parts.  That  the  social  en- 
largement of  recent  times  has  in  general  this  character 
seems  plain,  and  has  been  set  forth  in  much  detail  by 
some  writers,  notably  by  Herbert  Spencer.  Many, 
indeed,  find  the  characteristic  evil  of  the  new  era  in  an 
extreme  individuality,  a  somewhat  anarchic  differentia- 
tion and  working  at  cross  purposes.  *' Probably  there 
was  never  any  time,"  says  Professor  Mackenzie,  ''in 
which  men  tended  to  be  so  unintelligible  to  each  other  as 
they  are  now,  on  account  of  the  diversity  of  the  objects 
v/ith  which  they  are  engaged,  and  of  the  points  of  view 
at  which  they  stand."* 

On  the  other  hand  we  have  what  we  may  call  the  dead 
level  theory,  of  which  De  Tocqueville,  in  his  Democracy 
in  America,  was  apparently  the  chief  author.  Modern 
conditions,  according  to  this,  break  down  all  limits  to  the 
spread  of  ideas  and  customs.  Great  populations  are 
brought  into  one  mental  whole,  through  which  movements 
of  thought  run  by  a  contagion  like  that  of  the  mob;  and 
instead  of  the  individuality  which  was  fostered  by  former 
obstacles,  we  have  a  universal  assimilation.  Each  lo- 
cality, it  is  pointed  out,  had  formerly  its  peculiar  accent 
*  Introduction  to  Social  Philosophy,  110. 
92 


MODERN  COMMUNICATION:  INDIVIDUALITY 

and  mode  of  dress;  while  now  dialects  are  disappearing, 
and  almost  the  same  fashions  prevail  throughout  the  civ- 
ilized world.  This  uniformity  in  externals  is  held  to  be 
oHy  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  a  corresponding  level- 
ling of  ideas.  People,  it  is  said,  have  a  passion  to  be  alike, 
which  modern  appliances  enable  them  to  gratify.  Al- 
ready in  the  eighteenth  century  Dr.  Johnson  complained 
that  ^'commerce  has  left  the  people  no  singularities,"  and 
in  our  day  many  hold  with  John  Burroughs  that,  "Con- 
stant intercommunication,  the  friction  of  travel,  of  streets, 
of  books,  of  newspapers,  make  us  all  alike;  we  are,  as  it 
were,  all  pebbles  upon  the  same  shore,  washed  by  the 
same  waves."* 

The  key  to  this  matter,  in  my  judgment,  is  to  per- 
ceive that  there  are  two  kinds  of  individuality,  one  of  iso- 
lation and  one  of  choice,  and  that  modern  conditions  foster 
the  latter  while  they  efface  the  former.  They  tend  to 
make  life  rational  and  free  instead  of  local  and  accidental. 
They  enlarge  indefinitely  the  competition  of  ideas,  and 
whatever  has  owed  its  persistence  merely  to  lack  of  com- 
parison is  likely  to  go,  while  that  which  is  really  congenial 
to  the  choosing  mind  will  be  all  the  more  cherished  and 
increased.  Human  nature  is  enfranchised,  and  works 
on  a  larger  scale  as  regards  both  its  conformities  and  its 
non-conformities. 

Something  of  this  may  be  seen  in  the  contrast  between 
tow^n  and  country,  the  latter  having  more  of  the  individu- 
ality of  isolation,  the  former  of  choice.     *'The  rural  en- 
vironment," says  Mr.  R.  L.  Hartt,  speaking  of  country 
*  Nature's  Way,  Harper's  Magazine,  July,  1904. 
93 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

villages  in  New  England,  ''is  psychically  extravagant. 
It  tends  to  extremes.  A  man  carries  himself  out  to  his 
logical  conclusions;  he  becomes  a  concentrated  essence  of 
himself."*  I  travelled  some  years  ago  among  the  moun- 
tains of  North  Carolina,  at  that  time  wholly  unreached  by 
modern  industry  and  communication,  and  noticed  that 
not  only  was  the  dialect  of  the  region  as  a  whole  distinct 
from  that  of  neighboring  parts  of  the  country,  but  that 
even  adjoining  valleys  often  showed  marked  differences. 
Evidently  this  sort  of  local  individuality,  characteristic 
of  an  illiterate  people  living  on  their  own  corn,  pork  and 
neighborhood  traditions,  can  hardly  survive  the  new  com- 
munication. 

It  must  be  said,  however,  that  rural  life  has  other  con- 
ditions that  foster  individuality  in  a  more  wholesome  way 
than  mere  isolation,  and  are  a  real  advantage  in  the  growth 
of  character.  Among  these  are  control  over  the  immediate 
environment,  the  habit  of  face-to-face  struggle  with  nature, 
and  comparative  security  of  economic  position.  All  these 
contribute  to  the  self-reliance  upon  which  the  farming 
people  justly  pride  themselves. 

In  the  city  we  find  an  individuality  less  picturesque 
but  perhaps  more  functional.  There  is  more  facility 
for  the  formation  of  specialized  groups,  and  so  for  the 
fostering  of  special  capacities.  Notwithstanding  the  din 
of  communication  and  trade,  the  cities  are,  for  this  reason, 
the  chief  seats  of  productive  originality  in  art,  science  and 
letters. 

The  difference  is  analogous  to  that  between  the  develop- 
ment of  natural  species  on  islands  or  other  isolated  areas, 

*  A  New  England  Hill  Town.     The  Atlantic  Monthly,  April,  1899. 

94 


MODERN  COMMUNICATION:  INDIVIDUALITY 

and  on  a  wide  and  traversable  continent.  The  former 
produces  many  quaint  species,  like  the  kangaroos,  which 
disappear  when  brought  into  contact  with  more  capable 
types;  but  the  continent  by  no  means  brings  about  uni- 
formity. It  engenders,  rather,  a  complex  organism  of 
related  species  and  varieties,  each  of  which  is  compara- 
tively perfect  in  its  special  way;  and  has  become  so  through 
the  very  fact  of  a  wider  struggle  for  existence. 

So,  easy  communication  of  ideas  favors  differentiation 
of  a  rational  and  functional  sort,  as  distinguished  from 
the  random  variations  fostered  by  isolation.  And  it 
must  be  remembered  that  any  sort  is  rational  and  functional 
that  really  commends  itself  to  the  human  spirit.  Even 
revolt  from  an  ascendant  type  is  easier  now  than  formerly, 
because  the  rebel  can  fortify  himself  with  the  triumphant 
records  of  the  non-conformers  of  the  past. 

It  is,  then,  probable  that  local  peculiarity  of  speech  and 
manner,  and  other  curious  and  involuntary  sorts  of  indi- 
viduality, will  diminish.  And  certainly  a  great  deal  is 
thus  lost  in  the  way  of  local  color  and  atmosphere,  of  the 
racy  flavor  of  isolated  personalities  and  unconscious  pictu- 
resqueness  of  social  types.  The  diversities  of  dress, 
language  and  culture,  which  were  developed  in  Europe 
during  the  Middle  Ages,  when  each  little  barony  was  the 
channel  of  peculiar  traditions,  can  hardly  reappear.  Nor 
can  we  expect,  in  modern  cities,  the  sort  of  architectural 
individuality  we  find  in  those  of  Italy,  built  when  each 
village  was  a  distinct  political  and  social  unit.  Heine, 
speaking  of  Scott,  long  ago  referred  to  ''the  great  pain 
caused  by  the  loss  of  national  characteristics  in  conse- 

95 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

quence  of  the  spread  of  the  newer  culture — a  pain  which 
now  quivers  in  the  heart  of  all  peoples." 

But  the  more  vital  individuality,  the  cultivation  by 
special  groups  of  peculiar  phases  of  knowledge,  art  or 
conduct,  of  anything  under  the  heavens  in  fact  that  a  few 
people  may  agree  to  pursue,  will  apparently  be  increased. 
Since  uniformity  is  cheap  and  convenient,  we  may  expect 
it  in  all  matters  wherein  men  do  not  specially  care  to  as- 
sert themselves.  We  have  it  in  dress  and  domestic  archi- 
tecture, for  instance,  just  so  far  as  we  are  willing  to  take 
these  things  ready-made;  but  when  we  begin  to  put  our- 
selves into  them  we  produce  something  distinctive. 

Even  languages  and  national  characteristics,  if  the  peo- 
ple really  care  about  them,  can  be,  and  in  fact  are,  pre- 
served in  spite  of  political  absorption  and  the  assimilating 
power  of  communication.  There  is  nothing  more  notable 
in  recent  history  than  the  persistence  of  nationality,  even 
when,  as  in  Poland,  it  has  lost  its  political  expression;  and, 
as  to  languages,  it  is  said  that  many,  such  as  Roumanian, 
Bulgarian,  Servian,  Finnish,  Norsk  and  Flemish,  have 
revived  and  come  into  literary  and  popular  use  during 
the  nineteenth  century.  Mr.  Lecky,  in  his  ''Democracy 
and  Liberty"*  declared  that  ''there  has  been  in  many 
forms  a  marked  tendency  to  accentuate  distinct  national 
and  local  types." 

To  assume  that  a  free  concourse  of  ideas  will  produce 
uniformity  is  to  beg  the  whole  question.  If  it  be  true 
that  men  have  a  natural  diversity  of  gifts,  free  intercourse 
should  favor  its  development,  especially  when  we  consider 
that  strong  instinct  which  causes  man  to  take  pleasure  in 

*  I,  50L 
96 


MODERN  COMMUNICATION:  INDIVIDUALITY 

distinguishing  himself,  and  to  abhor  to  be  lost  in  the  crowd. 
And,  as  regards  the  actual  tendency  of  modern  life,  only 
an  obstinate  a  priori  reasoner  will  maintain  with  any  con- 
fidence the  decline  of  individuality.  Those  who  charge 
that  we  possess  it  in  extravagant  excess  have  at  least  an 
equal  show  of  reason. 

Nor,  from  the  standpoint  of  sentiment,  does  the  mod- 
ern expansion  of  feeling  and  larger  sense  of  unity  tend 
necessarily  to  a  loss  of  individuality.  There  is  no  pros- 
pect that  self-feeling  and  ambition  will  be  "lost  in  love's 
great  unity."*  On  the  contrary  these  sentiments  are 
fostered  by  freedom,  and  are  rather  guided  than  repressed 
by  sympathy. 

In  a  truly  organic  life  the  individual  is  self-conscious 
and  devoted  to  his  own  work,  but  feels  himself  and  that 
work  as  part  of  a  large  and  joyous  whole.  He  is  self- 
assertive,  just  because  he  is  conscious  of  being  a  thread 
in  the  great  web  of  events,  of  serving  effectually  as  a 
member  of  a  family,  a  state,  of  humanity,  and  of  what- 
ever greater  whole  his  faith  may  picture.  If  we  have  not 
yet  an  organic  society  in  this  sense,  we  have  at  least  the 
mechanical  conditions  that  must  underly  it. 

*  The  concluding  line  of  E.  W.  Sill's  poem,  Dare  You? 


O*^ 


CHAPTER  X 

MODERN  COMMUNICATION:    SUPERFICIALITY  AND 
STRAIN 

Stimulating  Effect  of  Modern  Life — Superficiality — Strain 
— Pathological  Effects. 

The  action  of  the  new  communication  is  essentially 
stimulating,  and  so  may,  in  some  of  its  phases,  be  injurious. 
It  costs  the  individual  more  in  the  way  of  mental  function 
to  take  a  normal  part  in  the  new  order  of  things  than  it 
did  in  the  old.  Not  only  is  his  outlook  broader,  so  that 
he  is  incited  to  think  and  feel  about  a  wider  range  of  mat- 
ters, but  he  is  required  to  be  a  more  thorough-going 
specialist  in  the  mastery  of  his  particular  function;  both 
extension  and  intension  have  grown.  General  culture 
and  technical  training  are  alike  more  exigent  than  they 
used  to  be,  and  their  demands  visibly  increase  from  year 
to  year,  not  only  in  the  schools  but  in  life  at  large.  The 
man  who  does  not  meet  them  falls  behind  the  procession, 
and  becomes  in  some  sense  a  failure:  either  unable  to 
make  a  living,  or  narrow  and  out  of  touch  with  generous 
movements. 

Fortunately,  from  this  point  of  view,  our  mental  func- 
tions are  as  a  rule  rather  sluggish,  so  that  the  spur  of 
modern  intercourse  is  for  the  most  part  wholesome,  awak- 
ening the  mind,  abating  sensuaHty,  and  giving  men  idea 
and  purpose.    Such  ill  effect  as  may  be  ascribed  to  it 

98 


MODERN  COMMUNICATION:  SUPERFICIALITY 

seems  to  fall  chiefly  under  the  two  heads,  superficiaHty 
and  strain,  which  the  reader  will  perceive  to  be  another 
view  of  that  enlargement  and  animation  discussed  in  the 
last  chapter  but  one. 

There  is  a  rather  general  agreement  among  observers 
that,  outside  of  his  specialty,  the  man  of  our  somewhat 
hurried  civilization  is  apt  to  have  an  impatient,  touch-and- 
go  habit  of  mind  as  regards  both  thought  and  feeling. 
We  are  trying  to  do  many  and  various  things,  and  are 
driven  to  versatility  and  short  cuts  at  some  expense  to 
truth  and  depth.  *'The  habit  of  inattention,"  said  De 
Tocqueville  about  1835,  ''must  be  considered  as  the  great- 
est defect  of  the  democratic  character"*;  and  recently 
his  judgment  has  been  confirmed  by  Ostrogorski,  who 
thinks  that  deliverance  from  the  bonds  of  space  and  time 
has  made  the  American  a  man  of  short  views,  wedded  to 
the  present,  accustomed  to  getting  quick  returns,  and 
with  no  deep  root  any  where,  f  We  have  reduced  ennui 
considerably;  but  a  moderate  ennui  is  justly  reckoned  by 
Comte  and  others  as  one  of  the  springs  of  progress,  and 
it  is  no  unmixed  good  that  we  are  too  busy  to  be  unhappy. 

In  this  matter,  as  in  so  many  others,  we  should  discrim- 
inate, so  far  as  we  can,  between  permanent  conditions 
of  modern  life  and  what  is  due  merely  to  change,  between 
democracy  and  confusion.  There  is  nothing  in  the  nature 
of  democracy  to  prevent  its  attaining,  when  transition  has 
somewhat  abated,  a  diverse  and  stable  organization  of  its 

*  Democracy  in  America,  vol.  ii,  book  iii,  chap.  15, 
t  Democracy    and   the    Organization     of    PoUtical    PartiBs,   ii, 
579-588. 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

own  sort,  with  great  advantage  to  our  spiritual  composure 
and  productivity. 

In  the  meanwhile  it  is  beyond  doubt  that  the  constant 
and  varied  stimulus  of  a  confused  time  makes  sustained 
attention  difficult.  Certainly  our  popular  literature  is 
written  for  those  who  run  as  they  read,  and  carries  the 
principle  of  economy  of  attention  beyond  anything  pre- 
viously imagined.  And  in  feeling  it  seems  to  be  true  that 
we  tend  toward  a  somewhat  superficial  kindliness  anc" 
adaptability,  rather  than  sustained  passion  of  any  kind. 
Generally  speaking,  mind  is  spread  out  very  thin  over 
our  civilization;  a  good  sort  of  mind,  no  doubt,  but  quite 
thin. 

All  this  may  be  counteracted  in  various  ways,  especially 
by  thoroughness  in  education,  and  is  perhaps  to  be  re- 
garded as  lack  of  maturity  rather  than  as  incurable  defect. 

Mental  strain,  in  spite  of  the  alarming  opinions  some- 
times expressed,  is  by  no  means  a  general  condition  in 
modern  society,  nor  likely  to  become  so;  it  is  confined  to  a 
relatively  small  number,  in  whom  individual  weakness,  or 
unusual  stress,  or  both,  has  rendered  life  too  much  for  the 
spirit.  Yet  this  number  includes  a  great  part  of  those 
who  perform  the  more  exacting  intellectual  functions  in 
business  and  the  professions,  as  well  as  peculiarly  weak, 
or  sensitive,  or  unfortunate  individuals  in  all  walks  of 
life.  In  general  there  is  an  increase  of  self-consciousness 
and  choice;  there  is  more  opportunity,  more  responsi- 
bility, more  complexity,  a  greater  burden  upon  intelligence, 
will  and  character.  The  individual  not  only  can  but  must 
deal  with  a  flood  of  urgent  suggestions,  or  be  swamped 

100 


MODERN  COMMUNICATION:  SUPERFICIALITY 

by  them.  "This  age  that  blots  out  life  with  question 
marks"*  forces  us  to  think  and  choose  whether  we  are 
ready  or  not. 

Worse,  probably,  than  anything  in  the  way  of  work — 
though  that  is  often  destructive — is  the  anxious  insecurity 
in  which  our  changing  life  keeps  a  large  part  of  the  popu- 
lation, the  well-to-do  as  well  as  the  poor.  And  an  edu- 
cated and  imaginative  people  feels  such  anxieties  more 
than  one  deadened  by  ignorance.  ''In  America,"  said 
De  Tocqueville,  "I  saw  the  freest  and  most  enlightened 
men  placed  in  the  happiest  circumstances  which  the  world 
affords;  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  a  cloud  habitually  hung  upon 
their  brows,  and  I  thought  them  serious  and  almost  sad, 
even  in  their  pleasures."  f 

Not  long  ago  Mr.  H.  D.  Sedgwick  contributed  to  a 
magazine  a  study  of  what  he  called  "The  New  American 
Type,"{  based  on  an  exhibition  of  English  and  American 
portraits,  some  recent,  some  a  century  old.  He  found 
that  the  more  recent  were  conspicuously  marked  l^y  the 
signs  of  unrest  and  strain.  Speaking  of  Mr.  Sargent's 
subjects  he  says,  "The  obvious  qualities  in  his  portraits 
are  disquiet,  lack  of  equilibrium,  absence  of  principle,  .  .  . 
a  mind  unoccupied  by  the  rightful  heirs,  as  if  the  home 
of  principle  and  dogma  had  been  transformed  into  an  inn 
for  wayfarers.  Sargent's  women  are  more  marked  than 
his  men;  women,  as  physically  more  delicate,  are  the  first 
to  reveal  the  strain  of  physical  and  psychical  malad- 
justment.    The  thin  spirit  of  life  shivers  pathetically  in 

*  J.  R.  Lowell,  The  Cathedral. 

t  Democracy  in  America,  vol.  ii,  book  ii,  chap.  13. 

j  Since  published  in  a  book  having  this  title. 

101 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

its  'fleshly  dress';  in  the  intensity  of  its  eagerness  it  is  all 
unconscious  of  its  spiritual  fidgeting  on  finding  itself  astray 
■ — no  path,  no  blazings,  the  old  forgotten,  the  new  not 
formed."  The  early  Americans,  he  says,  "  were  not  limber 
minded  men,  not  readily  agnostic,  not  nicely  sceptical; 
they  were  .  .  .  eighteenth  century  Englishmen."  Of 
Reynolds'  women  he  observes,  ''These  ladies  led  lives 
unvexed;  natural  affections,  a  few  brief  saws,  a  half- 
dozen  principles,  kept  their  brows  smooth,  their  cheeks 
ripe,  their  lips  most  wooable."  People  had  "a  stable 
physique  and  a  well-ordered,  logical,  dogmatic  philosophy." 
The  older  portraits  "chant  a  chorus  of  praise  for  national 
character,  for  class  distinctions,  for  dogma  and  belief,  for 
character,  for  good  manners,  for  honor,  for  contemplation, 
for  vision  to  look  upon  life  as  a  whole,  for  appreciation  that 
the  world  is  to  be  enjoyed,  for  freedom  from  democracy,  for 
capacity  in  lighter  mood  to  treat  existence  as  a  comedy 
told  by  Goldoni."* 

This  may  or  may  not  be  dispassionately  just,  but  it 
sets  forth  one  side  of  the  case — a  side  the  more  pertinent 
for  being  unpopular — and  suggests  a  very  real  though 
intangible  difference  between  the  people  of  our  time  and 
those  of  a  century  ago — one  which  all  students  must  have 
felt.  It  is  what  we  feel  in  literature  when  we  compare 
the  people  of  Jane  Austen  with  those,  let  us  say,  of  the 
author  of  The  House  of  Mirth. 

I  do  not  propose  to  inquire  how  far  the  effects  of  strain 
may  be  seen  in  an  increase  of  certain  distinctly  patho- 
logical phenomena,  such  as  neurasthenia,  the  use  of  drugs, 
*  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  April,  1904. 

102 


MODERN  COMMUNICATION:  SUPERFICIALITY 

insanity  and  suicide.  That  it  has  an  important  working 
in  this  way — difficult,  however,  to  separate  from  that  of 
other  factors — is  generally  conceded.  In  the  growth  of 
suicide  we  seem  to  have  a  statistical  demonstration  of  the 
destructive  effect  of  social  stress  at  its  worst;  and  of 
general  paralysis,  which  is  rapidly  increasing  and  has  been 
called  the  disease  of  the  century,  we  are  told  that  **it  is 
the  disease  of  excess,  of  vice,  of  overwork,  of  prolonged 
worry;  it  is  especially  the  disease  of  great  urban  centres, 
and  its  existence  usually  seems  to  show  that  the  organism 
has  entered  upon  a  competitive  race  for  which  it  is  not 
fully  equipped." 


108 


PART  III 
THE  DEMOCRATIC  MIND 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  ENLARGEMENT  OF  CONSCIOUSNESS 

Narrowness  of  Consciousness  in  Tribal  Society — Importance 
OF  Face-to-Face  Assembly — Individuality — Subconscious 
Character  of  Wider  Relations — Enlargement  of  Con- 
sciousness— Irregularity  in  Growth — Breadth  of  Modern 
Consciousness — Democracy. 

In  a  life  like  that  of  the  Teutonic  tribes  before  they  took 
on  Roman  civilization,  the  social  medium  was  small,  lim- 
ited for  most  purposes  to  the  family,  clan  or  village  group. 
Within  this  narrow  circle  there  was  a  vivid  interchange 
of  thought  and  feeling,  a  sphere  of  moral  unity,  of  sympa- 
thy, loyalty,  honor  and  congenial  intercourse.  Here 
precious  traditions  were  cherished,  and  here  also  was  the 
field  for  an  active  public  opinion,  for  suggestion  and  dis- 
cussion, for  leading  and  following,  for  conformity  and 
dissent.  "  In  this  kindly  soil  of  the  family,"  says  Professor 
Gummere  in  his  Germanic  Origins,  *' flourished  such 
growth  of  sentiment  as  that  rough  life  brought  forth. 
Peace,  good-will,  the  sense  of  honor,  loyalty  to  friend  and 
kinsman,  brotherly  affection,  all  were  plants  that  found 
in  the  Germanic  home  that  congenial  warmth  they  needed 
for  their  earliest  stages  of  growth.  .  .  .  Originally  the 
family  or  clan  made  a  definite  sphere  or  system  of  life; 
outside  of  it  the  homeless  man  felt  indeed  that  chaos  had 

come  again."* 

*  Pages  169,  171. 

107 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

When  we  say  that  pubUc  opinion  is  modern,  we  mean 
cf  course,  the  wider  and  more  elaborate  forms  of  it.  On 
a  smaller  scale  it  has  always  existed  where  people  have 
had  a  chance  to  discuss  and  act  upon  matters  of  common 
interest.  Among  our  American  Indians,  for  example, 
"Opinion  was  a  most  potent  factor  in  all  tribes,  and  this 
would  be  largely  directed  by  those  having  popularity 
and  power.  Officers,  in  fact  all  persons,  became  ex- 
tremely well  known  in  the  small  community  of  an  Amerind 
tribe.  Every  peculiarity  of  temperament  was  understood, 
and  the  individual  was  respected  or  despised  according 
to  his  predominating  characteristics.  Those  who  were 
bold  and  fierce  and  full  of  strategy  were  made  war-chiefs, 
while  those  who  possessed  judgment  and  decision  were 
made  civil  chiefs  or  governors."*  The  Germanic  tribes 
were  accustomed  to  assemble  in  those  village  moots  to 
which  the  historian  recurs  with  such  reverence,  where  ''  the 
men  from  whom  Englishmen  were  to  spring  learned  the 
worth  of  public  opinion,  of  public  discussion,  the  worth 
of  the  agreement,  the  'common-sense'  to  which  dis- 
cussion leads,  as  of  the  laws  which  derive  their  force  from 
being  expressions  of  that  general  conviction."! 

Discussion  and  public  opinion  of  this  simple  sort,  as 
every  one  knows,  takes  place  also  among  children  wher- 
ever they  mingle  freely.  Indeed,  it  springs  so  directly 
from  human  nature,  and  is  so  difficult  to  suppress  even 
by  the  most  inquisitorial  methods,  that  we  may  assume 
it  to  exist  locally  in  all  forms  of  society  and  at  all  peri- 
ods of  history     It  grows  by  looks  and  gestures  where 

*F.  S.  Dellenbaugh,  The  North  Americans  of  Yesterday,  416. 
t  J.  R.  Green,  History  of  the  EngHsh  People,  i,  13. 

108 


THE  ENLARGEMENT  OF  CONSCIOUSNESS 

speech  is  forbidden,  so  that  even  in  a  prison  there  is  public 
opinion  among  the  inmates.  But  in  tribal  life  these  local 
groups  contained  all  the  vivid  and  conscious  society  there 
was,  the  lack  of  means  of  record  and  of  quick  transmission 
making  a  wider  unity  impracticable. 

In  the  absence  of  indirect  communication  people  had 
to  come  into  face-to-face  contact  in  order  to  feel  social 
excitement  and  rise  to  the  higher  phases  of  consciousness. 
Hence  games,  feasts  and  public  assemblies  of  every  sort 
meant  more  to  the  general  life  than  they  do  in  our  day. 
They  were  the  occasions  of  exaltation,  the  theatre  for  the 
display  of  eloquence — either  in  discussing  questions  of 
the  moment  or  recounting  deeds  of  the  past — and  for  the 
practice  of  those  rhythmic  exercises  that  combined  dancing, 
acting,  poetry  and  music  in  one  comprehensive  and  com- 
munal art.  Such  assemblies  are  possibly  more  ancient  than 
human  nature  itself — since  human  nature  implies  a  preced- 
ing evolution  of  group  life — and  in  some  primitive  form  of 
them  speech  itself  is  supposed  by  some  to  have  been  born. 
Just  as  children  invent  words  in  the  eagerness  of  play,  and 
slang  arises  among  gangs  of  boys  on  the  street,  so  the  earl- 
iest men  were  perhaps  incited  to  the  invention  of  language 
by  a  certain  ecstasy  and  self -forgetting  audacity,  like  that  of 
the  poet,  sprung  from  the  excitement  of  festal  meetings.* 

Something  of  the  spirit  of  these  primitive  assemblies 
is  perhaps  reproduced  in  the  social  exaltation  of  those  festal 
evenings  around  the  camp-fire  which  many  of  us  can  recall, 
with  individual  and  group  songs,  chants,  "stunts"  and  the 

*  J.  Donovan,  The  Festal  Origin  of  Human  Speech.  Mind, 
October,  1891. 

109 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

like;  when  there  were  not  wanting  original,  almost  im« 
promptu,  compositions — celebrating  notable  deeds  or  satir- 
izing conspicuous  individuals — which  the  common  excite- 
ment generated  in  the  minds  of  one  or  more  ingenious 
persons. 

It  is  sometimes  said  that  the  individual  counted  for 
nothing  in  tribal  life,  that  the  family  or  the  clan  was  the 
unit  of  society,  in  which  all  personalities  were  m.erged. 
From  the  standpoint  of  organization  there  is  much  truth 
in  this;  that  is  the  group  of  kindred  was  for  many  pur- 
poses (political,  economic,  religious,  etc.)  a  corporate  unit, 
acting  as  a  whole  and  responsible  as  a  whole  to  the  rest 
of  society;  so  that  punishment  of  wrong-doing,  for  ex- 
ample, would  be  exacted  from  the  group  rather  than  from 
the  particular  offender.  But  taken  psychologically,  to  mean 
that  there  was  a  lack  of  self-assertion,  the  idea  is  with- 
out foundation.  On  the  contrary,  the  barbaric  mind  ex- 
alts an  aggressive  and  even  extravagant  individuality. 
Achilles  is  a  fair  sample  of  its  heroes,  mighty  in  valor 
and  prowess,  but  vain,  arrogant  and  resentful — what 
we  should  be  apt  to  call  an  individualist.*  The  men  of 
the  Niebelungenlied,  of  Beowulf,  of  Norse  and  Irish  tales 
and  of  our  Indian  legends  are  very  much  like  him. 

Consider,  also,  the  personal  initiative  displayed  in  the 
formation  of  a  war-party  among  the  Omahas,  as  described 
by  Dorsey,  and  note  how  little  it  differs  from  the  way  in 
which  commercial  and  other  enterprises  are  started  at 
the  present  day. 

*  "Jura  neget  sibi  nata,  nihil  non  arroget  armis." — Horace,  Ara 
Poet.,  122. 

110 


THE  ENLARGEMENT  OF  CONSCIOUSNESS 

**It  is  generally  a  young  man  who  decides  to  undertake 
an  expedition  against  the  enemy.  Having  formed  his 
plan  he  speaks  thus  to  his  friend:  'My  friend,  as  I  wish 
to  go  on  the  war  path,  let  us  go.  Let  us  boil  the  food  as 
for  a  feast.*  The  friend  having  consented,  tht'  two  are 
the  leaders  ...  if  they  can  induce  others  to  follow  them. 
So  they  find  two  young  men  whom  they  send  as  messengers 
to  invite  those  whom  they  name.  .  .  .  When  all  have 
assembled  the  planner  of  the  expedition  addresses  the 
eompany.  '  Ho !  my  friends,  my  friend  and  I  have  invited 
you  to  a  feast,  because  we  wish  to  go  on  the  war  path.' 
Then  each  one  who  is  willing  to  go  replies  thus:  *Yes, 
my  friend,  I  am  willing.'  But  he  who  is  unwilling  re- 
plies, *My  friend,  I  do  not  wish  to  go,  I  am  unwilling.' 
Sometimes  the  host  says,  '  Let  us  go  by  such  a  day.  Pre- 
pare yourselves.'  "* 

The  whole  proceeding  reminds  one  also  of  the  way 
games  are  initiated  among  boys,  the  one  who  "gets  it  up" 
having  the  right  to  claim  the  best  position.  No  doubt  the 
structure  of  some  tribal  societies  permitted  of  less  initia- 
tive than  others;  but  such  differences  exist  at  all  stages 
of  culture. 

Self-feeling,  self-assertion  and  the  general  relation  of 
the  individual  to  the  group  are  much  the  same  at  all 
epochs,  and  there  was  never  a  time  since  man  became 
human  when,  as  we  sometimes  read,  "personality 
emerged."  Change  has  taken  place  chiefly  in  the  extent 
and  character  of  the  group  to  which  the  individual  ap- 
peals, and  in  the  ways  in  which  he  tries  to  distinguish 

*  J.  O.  Dorsey,  Omaha  Sociology,  315,  316.  A  publication  of  the 
U.  S.  Bureau  of  Ethnology. 

Ill 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

himself.  The  Germanic  tribesman,  the  mediaeval  knight, 
the  Renaissance  artist  or  scholar  and  the  modern  captain 
of  industr}  are  alike  ambitious:  it  is  the  object  that  differs. 
There  has,  indeed,  been  a  development  of  personality  in 
history,  but  it  has  been  correlative  with  that  of  the  general 
life,  and  has  brought  no  essential  change  in  the  relation 
between  the  two. 

X  In  tribal  life,  then,  since  the  conditions  did  not  admit 
^  of  wider  unification,  public  consciousness  could  be  only 
-  local  in  scope.  Beyond  its  narrow  range  the  cords  whicli 
held  life  together  were  of  a  subconscious  character- 
heredity,  of  course,  with  its  freight  of  mental  and  social 
tendency;  oral  tradition,  often  vague  and  devious,  and  a 
mass  of  custom  that  was  revered  without  being  understood. 
These  wider  relations,  not  being  surveyed  and  discussed, 
could  not  be  the  objects  of  deliberate  thought  and  will, 
but  were  accepted  as  part  of  the  necessary  order  of  things, 
and  usually  ascribed  to  some  divine  source.  In  this  way 
language,  laws,  religion,  forms  of  government,  social 
classes,  traditional  relations  to  other  clans  or  tribes — all 
of  which  we  know  to  have  been  built  up  by  the  cumulative 
workings  of  the  human  mind — were  thought  of  as  beyond 
the  sphere  of  man's  control. 

The  wider  unity  existed,  then  as  now;  human  develop- 
ment was  continuous  in  time  and,  after  a  blind  fashion, 
cooperative  among  contemporaries.  The  tools  of  life 
were  progressively  invented  and  spread  by  imitation  from 
tribe  to  tribe,  the  fittest  always  tending  to  survive;  but 
anly  the  immediate  details  of  such  changes  were  matters 
^  consciousness:   as  processes  they  were  beyond  human 

112 


THE  ENLARGEMENT  OF  CONSCIOUSNESS 

cognizance.  A  man  might  adapt  an  ancient  custom  to  a 
fresh  emergency,  but  he  would  be  unaware  that  he  was 
shaping  the  growth  of  institutions. 

There  was  even  a  tribal  or  national  opinion,  of  a  slow, 
subconscious  sort;  a  growth  and  consensus  of  ideas 
upon  matters  of  general  and  enduring  interest,  such  as 
religion,  marriage  and  government.  And,  under  un- 
usual pressure,  some  more  conscious  unity  of  spirit 
might  be  aroused,  as  among  the  Germans  or  Gauls 
confederated  against  Rome;  but  this  was  likely  to  be 
transient. 

The  central  fact  of  history,  from  a  psychological  point 
of  view,  may  be  said  to  be  the  gradual  enlargement  of 
social  consciousness  and  rational  cooperation.  The  mind 
constantly,  though  perhaps  not  regularly,  extends  the 
sphere  within  which  it  makes  its  higher  powers  valid. 
Human  nature,  possessed  of  ideals  moulded  in  the  family 
and  the  commune,  is  ever  striving,  somewhat  blindly  for 
the  most  part,  with  those  difficulties  of  communication  and 
organization  which  obstruct  their  realization  on  a  larger 
scale.  Whether  progress  is  general  or  not  we  need  not 
now  inquire;  it  is  certain  that  great  gains  have  been 
made  by  the  more  vigorous  or  fortunate  races,  and  that 
these  are  regarded  with  emulation  and  hope  by  many  of 
the  others. 

Throughout  modern  European  history,  at  least,  there 
has  been  an  evident  extension  of  the  local  areas  within 
which  communication  and  cooperation  prevail,  and,  on  the 
whole,  an  advance  in  the  quality  of  cooperation  as  judged 
by  an  ideal  moral  unity.     It  has  tended  to  become  more 

113 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

free  and  human,  more  adequately  expressive  of  communal 
feeling. 

Perhaps  all  apparent  departures  from  this  tendency 
may  plausibly  be  explained  as  cases  of  irregular  growth. 
If  we  find  that  vast  systems  of  discipline,  like  the  Roman 
Empire,  have  broken  down,  we  find  also  that  these  sys- 
tems were  of  a  low  type,  psychologically,  that  the  best 
features  of  them  were  after  all  preserved,  and  that  the 
new  systems  that  arose,  though  perhaps  less  in  extent, 
were  on  the  whole  a  higher  and  fuller  expression  of  human 
nature. 

In  the  later  Empire,  for  example,  it  seems  plain  that 
social  mechanism  (in  its  proper  kind  and  measure  one 
of  the  conditions  of  freedom)  had  grown  in  such  a  way  as 
to  shackle  the  human  mind.  In  order  to  achieve  and 
maintain  an  imperial  reach  of  control,  the  state  had  gradu- 
ally been  forced  to  take  on  a  centralized  bureaucratic 
structure,  which  left  the  individual  and  the  local  group 
no  sphere  of  self-reliant  development.  Public  spirit  and 
political  leadership  were  suppressed,  and  the  habit  of 
organized  self-expression  died  out,  leaving  the  people 
without  group  vitality  and  as  helpless  as  children.  They 
were  not,  in  general,  cowards  or  voluptuaries — it  seems 
that  the  decline  of  courage  and  domestic  morals  has  been 
exaggerated — but  they  had  no  trained  and  effective  pub- 
lic capacity.  Society,  as  Professor  Dill  says,  had  been 
elaborately  and  deliberately  stereotyped. 

The  decline  of  vitality  and  initiative  pervaded  all  spheres 
of  life.  There  were  no  inventions  and  little  industrial 
or    agricultural    progress    of   any   kind.     Literature    de- 

114 


THE  ENLARGEMENT  OF  CONSCIOUSNESS 

generated  into  rhetoric:  ''In  the  same  manner,"  says 
Longinus,  "as  some  children  always  remain  pigmies, 
whose  infant  limbs  have  been  too  closely  confined,  thus 
our  tender  minds,  fettered  by  the  prejudices  and  habits 
of  a  just  servitude,  are  unable  to  expand  themselves,  or 
to  attain  that  well-proportioned  greatness  which  we  ad- 
mire in  the  ancients,  who,  living  under  a  popular  govern- 
ment, wrote  with  the  same  freedom  as  they  acted."* 

The  growing  states  of  the  earlier  world  were  confronted, 
whether  they  knew  it  or  not,  with  an  irreconcilable  oppo- 
sition between  freedom  and  expansion.  They  might 
retain  in  small  areas  those  simple  and  popular  institu- 
tions which  nearly  all  the  great  peoples  started  with,  and 
to  which  they  owed  their  vigor;  or  they  could  organize 
on  a  larger  scale  a  more  mechanical  unity.  In  the  first 
case  their  careers  were  brief,  because  they  lacked  the 
military  force  to  ensure  permanence  in  a  hostile  world. 
In  the  latter  they  incurred,  by  the  suppression  of  human 
nature,  that  degeneracy  which  sooner  or  later  overtook 
every  great  state  of  antiquity. 

In  some  such  way  as  this  we  may,  perhaps,  dispose  of 
the  innumerable  instances  which  history  shows  of  the 
failure  of  free  organization — as  in  the  decay  of  ancient 
and  mediaeval  city  republics.  Not  only  was  their  freedom 
of  an  imperfect  nature  at  the  best,  but  they  were  too  small 
to  hold  their  own  in  a  world  that  was  necessarily,  for  the 
most  part,  autocratic  or  customary.  Freedom,  though 
in  itself  a  principle  of  strength,  was  on  too  little  a  scale 
to  defend  itself.     ''If  a  republic  be  small,"  said  Montes- 

*  Quoted  by  Gibbon,  Decline  and  Fall,  Milman-Smith  edition, 
i,  194,  195. 

115 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

quieu,  ''it  is  destroyed  by  a  foreign  force;   u  it  be  large 
it  is  ruined  by  internal  imperfection."* 

But  how  splendid,  in  literature,  in  art,  and  even  in 
arms,  were  many  of  these  failures.  How  well  did  Athens, 
Florence  and  a  hundred  other  cities  illustrate  the  intrinsic 
strength  and  fecundity  of  that  free  principle  to  which 
modern  conditions  permit  an  indefinite  expansion. 

The  present  epoch,  then,  brings  with  it  a  larger  and, 
potentially  at  least,  a  higher  and  freer  consciousness.  In 
the  individual  aspect  of  life  this  means  that  each  one  of 
us  has,  as  a  rule,  a  wider  grasp  of  situations,  and  is  thus 
in  a  position  to  give  a  wider  application  to  his  intelligence, 
sympathy  and  conscience.  In  proportion  as  he  does 
this  he  ceases  to  be  a  blind  agent  and  becomes  a  rational 
member  of  the  whole. 

Because  of  this  more  conscious  relation  to  the  larger 
wholes — nations,  institutions,  tendencies — he  takes  a 
more  vital  and  personal  part  in  them.  His  self-feeling 
attaches  itself,  as  its  nature  is,  to  the  object  of  his  free 
activity,  and  he  tends  to  feel  that  *'love  of  the  maker  for 
his  work,"  that  spiritual  identification  of  the  member 
with  the  whole,  which  is  the  ideal  of  organization. 

De  Tocqueville  found  that  in  the  United  States  there 
was  no  proletariat.  "That  numerous  and  turbulent 
multitude  does  not  exist,  who  regarding  the  law  as  their 
natural  enemy  look  upon  it  v/ith  fear  and  distrust.  It  is 
impossible,  on  the  contrary,  not  to  perceive  that  all  classes 
,  .  ,  are  attached  to  it  by  a  kind  of  parental  affection.""); 

*  The  Spirit  of  Laws,  book  ix,  chap.  1. 
f  Democracy  in  America,  vol.  i,  chap.  24. 

lie 


THE  ENLARGEMENT  OF  CONSCIOUSNESS 

And,  notwithstanding  a  deep  and  well-grounded  "social 
unrest,"  this  remains  essentially  true  at  the  present  day, 
and  should  be  true  of  all  real  democracy.  Where  the  state 
is  directly  and  obviously  founded  upon  the  thought  of  the 
people  it  is  impossible  to  get  up  much  fundamental  an- 
tagonism to  it;  the  energies  of  discontent  are  absorbed  by 
moderate  agitation. 

The  extension  of  reach  and  choice  favors,  in  the  long 
run,  not  only  political  but  every  kind  of  opportunity  and 
freedom.  It  opens  to  the  individual  a  more  vital,  self- 
determined  and  energetic  part  in  all  phases  of  the  whole. 

At  the  same  time,  the  limits  of  human  faculty  make  it 
impossible  that  any  one  of  us  should  actually  occupy  all 
the  field  of  thought  thus  open  to  him.  Although  stimu- 
lated to  greater  activity  than  before,  one  must  constantly 
select  and  renounce;  and  most  of  his  life  will  still  be  on 
the  plane  of  custom  and  mechanism.  He  is  freer  chiefly 
in  that  he  can  survey  the  larger  whole  and  choose  in  what 
relations  he  will  express  himself. 

Indeed,  an  ever-present  danger  of  the  new  order  is  that 
one  will  not  select  and  renounce  enough,  that  he  will  swal- 
low more  than  he  can  properly  digest,  and  fail  of  the  bene- 
fits of  a  thorough  subconscious  assimilation.  The  more 
one  studies  current  life,  the  more  he  is  inclined  to  look 
upon  superficiality  as  its  least  tractable  defect. 

The  new  conditions  demand  also  a  thorough,  yet  diversi- 
fied and  adaptable,  system  of  training  for  the  individual 
who  is  to  share  in  this  freer  and  more  exigent  society. 
While  democracy  as  a  spirit  is  spontaneous,  only  the 
fullest  development  of  personal  faculty  can  make  this 
spirit  effectual  on  a  great  scale.     Our  confidence  in  our 

117 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

instincts  need  not  be  shaken,  but  our  application  of  them 
must  be  enlarged  and  enlightened.  We  must  be  taught 
to  do  some  one  thing  well,  and  yet  never  allowed  to  lose 
our  sense  of  the  relation  of  that  one  thing  to  the  general 
endeavor. 

The  general  or  public  phase  of  larger  consciousness 
is  what  we  call  Democracy.  I  mean  by  this  primarily 
the  organized  sway  of  public  opinion.  It  works  out  also 
in  a  tendency  to  humanize  the  collective  life,  to  make 
institutions  express  the  higher  impulses  of  human  nature, 
instead  of  brutal  or  mechanical  conditions.  That  which 
most  inwardly  distinguishes  modern  life  from  ancient  or 
mediaeval  is  the  conscious  power  of  the  common  people 
trying  to  effectuate  their  instincts.  All  systems  rest,  in 
a  sense,  upon  public  opinion;  but  the  peculiarity  of  our 
time  is  that  this  opinion  is  more  and  more  rational  and 
self-determining.  It  is  not,  as  in  the  past,  a  mere  reflection 
of  conditions  believed  to  be  inevitable,  but  seeks  prin- 
ciples, finds  these  principles  in  human  nature,  and  is 
determined  to  conform  life  to  them  or  know  why  not.  In 
this  all  earnest  people,  in  their  diverse  ways,  are  taking 
part. 

We  find,  of  course,  that  but  little  can  be  carried  out  on 
the  highest  moral  plane;  the  mind  cannot  attend  to  many 
things  with  that  concentration  which  achieves  adequate 
expression,  and  the  principle  of  compensation  is  ever  at 
work.  If  one  thing  is  well  done,  others  are  overlooked, 
so  that  we  are  constantly  being  caught  and  ground  in  our 
own  neglected  mechanism. 

\  On  the  whole,  however,  the  larger  mind  involves  a 

118 


THE  ENLARGEMENT  OF  CONSCIOUSNESS 

C democratic  and  humanistic  trend  in  every  phase  of  life. 
A  right  democracy  is  simply  the  application  on  a  large 
scale  of  principles  which  are  universally  felt  to  be  right  as 
applied  to  a  small  group — principles  of  free  cooperation 
motived  by  a  common  spirit  which  each  serves  according 
to  his  capacity.  Most  of  what  is  characteristic  of  the 
time  is  evidently  of  this  nature;  as,  for  instance,  our  senti- 
ment of  fair  play,  our  growing  kindliness,  our  cult  of 
womanhood,  our  respect  for  hand  labor,  and  our  endeavor 
to  organize  society  economically  or  on  ''business  princi- 
ples." And  it  is  perhaps  equally  evident  that  the  ideas 
which  these  replace — of  caste,  of  domination,  of  military 
glory,  of  ''conspicuous  leisure"*  and  the  like — sprang 
from  a  secondary  and  artificial  system,  based  on  con- 
ditions which  forbade  a  large  realization  of  primary  ideals. 
May  we  not  say,  speaking  largely,  that  there  has  al- 
ways been  a  democratic  tendency,  whose  advance  has  been 
conditioned  by  the  possibility,  under  actual  conditions,  of 
organizing  popular  thought  and  will  on  a  wide  scale? 
Free  cooperation  is  natural  and  human;  it  takes  place 
spontaneously  among  children  on  the  playground,  among 
settlers  in  new  countries,  and  among  the  most  primitive 
sorts  of  men — everywhere,  in  short,  where  the  secondary 
and  artificial  discipline  has  not  supplanted  it.  The  latter, 
including  every  sort  of  coercive  or  mechanical  control  is, 
of  course,  natural  in  the  larger  sense,  and  functional  in 
human  development;  but  there  must  ever  be  some  re- 
sistance to  it,  which  will  tend  to  become  effective  when 
the  control  ceases  to  be  maintained  by  the  pressure  of  ex- 

*  One  of  many  illuminating  phrases  introduced  by  T.  V.  Veblen 
in  his  work  on  The  Theory  of  the  Leisure  Class. 

119 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

pediency.  Accordingly  we  see  that  throughout  modern 
history,  and  especially  during  the  past  century,  there  has 
been  a  progressive  humanism,  a  striving  to  clear  away 
lower  forms  of  cooperation  no  longer  essential,  and  to 
substitute  something  congenial  to  natural  impulse. 

Discussion  regarding  the  comparative  merits  of  mon- 
archy, aristocracy  and  democracy  has  come  to  be  looked 
upon  as  scholastic.  The  world  is  clearly  democratizing; 
it  is  only  a  question  of  how  fast  the  movement  can  take 
place,  and  what,  under  various  conditions,  it  really  in- 
volves. Democracy,  instead  of  being  a  single  and  definite 
political  type,  proves  to  be  merely  a  principle  of  breadth 
in  organization,  naturally  prevalent  wherever  men  have 
learned  how  to  work  it,  under  which  life  will  be  at  least 
as  various  in  its  forms  as  it  was  before. 

It  involves  a  change  in  the  character  of  social  discipline 
not  confined  to  politics,  but  as  much  at  home  in  one  sphere 
as  another.  With  facility  of  communication  as  its  me- 
chanical basis,  it  proceeds  inevitably  to  discuss  and  experi- 
ment with  freer  modes  of  action  in  religion,  industry,  edu- 
cation, philanthropy  and  the  family.  The  law  of  the 
survival  of  the  fittest  will  prevail  in  regard  to  social  insti- 
tutions, as  it  has  in  the  past,  but  the  conditions  of  fitness 
have  undergone  a  change  the  implications  of  which  we 
can  but  dimly  foresee. 


120 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  THEORY  OF  PUBLIC  OPINION 

Public  Opinion  as  Organization — Agreement  not  Essential 
—Public  Opinion  versus  Popular  Impression — Public 
Thought  not  an  Average — A  Group  is  Capable  of  Ex- 
pression THROUGH   ITS  MoST  COMPETENT  MeMBERS GENERAL 

AND  Special  Public  Opinion — The  Sphere  of  the  Former 
— Of  the  Latter — The  Two  are  United  in  Personality — 
How  Public  Opinion  Rules — Effective  Rule  Based  on 
Moral  Unity. 

Public  opinion  is  no  mere  aggregate  of  separate  indi- 
vidual judgments,  but  an  organization,  a  cooperative 
product  of  communication  and  reciprocal  influence.  It 
may  be  as  different  from  the  sum  of  what  the  individuals 
could  have  thought  out  in  separation  as  a  ship  built  by 
a  hundred  men  is  from  a  hundred  boats  each  built  by 
one  man. 

A  group  "makes  up  its  mind"  in  very  much  the  same 
manner  that  the  individual  makes  up  his.  The  latter 
must  give  time  and  attention  to  the  question,  search  his 
consciousness  for  pertinent  ideas  and  sentiments,  and 
work  them  together  into  a  whole,  before  he  knows  what 
his  real  thought  about  it  is.  In  the  case  of  a  nation  the 
same  thing  must  take  place,  only  on  a  larger  scale.  Each 
individual  must  make  up  his  mind  as  before,  but  in  doing 
so  he  has  to  deal  not  only  with  what  was  already  in  his 
thought  or  memory,  but  with  fresh  ideas  that  flow  in  from 

121 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

others  whose  minds  are  also  aroused.  Every  one  who 
has  any  fact,  or  thought,  or  feehng,  which  he  thinks  is 
unknown,  or  insufficiently  regarded,  tries  to  impart  it; 
and  thus  not  only  one  mind  but  all  minds  are  searched  for 
pertinent  material,  which  is  poured  into  the  general  stream 
of  thought  for  each  one  to  use  as  he  can.  In  this  manner 
the  minds  in  a  communicating  group  become  a  single 
organic  whole.  Their  unity  is  not  one  of  identity,  but  of 
life  and  action,  a  crystallization  of  diverse  but  related 
ideas. 

It  is  not  at  all  necessary  that  there  should  be  agreement; 
the  essential  thing  is  a  certain  ripeness  and  stability  of 
thought  resulting  from  attention  and  discussion.  There 
may  be  quite  as  much  difference  of  opinion  as  there  was 
before,  but  the  differences  now  existing  are  comparatively 
intelligent  and  lasting.  People  know  what  they  really 
think  about  the  matter,  and  what  other  people  think. 
Measures,  platforms,  candidates,  creeds  and  other  symbols 
have  been  produced  which  serve  to  express  and  assist 
cooperation  and  to  define  opposition.  There  has  come 
to  be  a  relatively  complete  organization  of  thought,  to 
which  each  individual  or  group  contributes  in  its  own 
peculiar  way. 

Take,  for  instance,  the  state  of  opinion  in  the  United 
States  regarding  slavery  at  the  outbreak  of  the  civil  war. 
No  general  agreement  had  been  reached;  but  the  popular 
mind  had  become  organized  with  reference  to  the  matter, 
which  had  been  turned  over  and  regarded  from  all  points 
of  view,  by  all  parts  of  the  community,  until  a  cert'^in 
ripeness  regarding  it  had  been  reached;   reveaHng  in  this 

122 


THE  THEORY   OF  PUBLIC  OPINION 

case  a  radical  conflict  of  thought  between  the  North  and 
the  South,  and  much  local  diversity  in  both  sections. 

One  who  would  understand  public  opinion  should  dis- 
tinguish clearly  between  a  true  or  mature  opinion  and  a 
popular  impression.  The  former  requires  earnest  at- 
tention and  discussion  for  a  considerable  time,  and  when 
reached  is  significant,  even  if  mistaken.  It  rarely  exists 
regarding  matters  of  temporary  interest,  and  current  talk 
or  print  is  a  most  uncertain  index  of  it.  A  popular  im- 
pression, on  the  other  hand,  is  facile,  shallow,  transient,  with 
that  fickleness  and  fatuity  that  used  to  be  ascribed  to  the 
popular  mind  in  general.  It  is  analogous  to  the  uncon- 
sidered views  and  utterances  of  an  individual,  and  the  more 
one  studies  it  the  less  seriously  he  will  take  it.  It  may  happen 
that  ninety-nine  men  in  a  hundred  hold  opinions  to-day 
contrary  to  those  they  will  hold  a  month  hence — partly 
because  they  have  not  yet  searched  their  own  minds, 
partly  because  the  few  who  have  really  significant  and 
well-grounded  ideas  have  not  had  time  to  impress  them 
upon  the  rest. 

It  is  not  unreasonable,  then,  to  combine  a  very  slight 
regard  for  most  of  what  passes  as  public  opinion  with 
much  confidence  in  the  soundness  of  an  aroused,  mature, 
organic  social  judgment. 

There  is  a  widespread,  but  as  I  believe  a  fallacious,  idea 
that  the  public  thought  or  action  must  in  some  way  ex- 
press the  working  of  an  average  or  commonplace  mind, 
must  be  some  kind  of  a  mean  between  the  higher  and 
lower  intelligences  making  up  the  group.     It  would  be 

123 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

more  correct  to  say  that  it  is  representative,  meaning  by 
this  that  the  preponderant  feeling  of  the  group  seeks 
definite  and  effectual  expression  through  individuals 
specially  competent  to  give  it  such  expression.  Take 
for  instance  the  activities  of  one  of  our  colleges  in  inter- 
collegiate athletics  or  debates.  What  belongs  to  the  group 
at  large  is  a  vague  desire  to  participate  and  excel  in  such 
competitions;  but  in  realizing  itself  this  desire  seeks  as  its 
agents  the  best  athletes  or  debaters  that  are  to  be  found. 
,A  little  common-sense  and  observation  will  show  thai  the 
^expression  of  a  group  is  nearly  always  superior,  for  the 
mrpose  in  hand,  to  the  average  capacity  of  its  members. 
I  do  not  mean  morally  superior,  but  simply  more  effective, 
in  a  direction  determined  by  the  prevalent  feeling.  If  a 
mob  is  in  question,  the  brutal  nature,  for  the  time-being 
ascendant,  may  act  through  the  most  brutal  men  in  the 
group;  and  in  like  manner  a  money-making  enterprise 
is  apt  to  put  forward  the  shrewdest  agents  it  can  find, 
without  regard  for  any  moral  qualities  except  fidelity  to 
itself. 

But  if  the  life  of  the  group  is  deliberate  and  sympathetic, 
its  expression  may  be  morally  high,  on  a  level  not  merely 
of  the  average  member,  but  of  the  most  competent,  of  the 
best.  The  average  theory  as  applied  to  public  conscious- 
ness is  wholly  out  of  place.  The  public  mind  may  be  on  a 
lower  plane  than  that  of  the  individual  thinking  in  sepa- 
ration, or  it  may  be  on  a  higher,  but  is  almost  sure  to  be  on 
a  different  plane;  and  no  inkling  of  its  probable  character 
can  be  had  by  taking  a  mean.  One  mind  in  the  right, 
whether  on  statesmanship,  science,  morals,  or  what  not, 

124 


THE  THEORY  OF  PUBLIC  OPINION 

may  raise  all  other  minds  to  its  own  point  of  view — be- 
cause of  the  general  capacity  for  recognition  and  deference 
— just  as  through  our  aptitude  for  sudden  rage  or  fear 
one  mind  in  the  wrong  may  debase  all  the  rest. 

This  is  the  way  in  which  right  social  judgments  are 
reached  in  matters  so  beyond  commonplace  capacity  as 
science,  philosophy,  and  much  of  literature  and  art.  ^Ji, 
good  critics  tell  us  that  the  judgment  of  mankind,  in  the 
long  run,  is  sure  and  sound.  The  world  makes  no  mis- 
take as  to  Plato,  though,  as  Emerson  said,  there  are  never 
enough  understanding  readers  alive  to  pay  for  an  edition 
of  his  works.  This,  to  be  sure,  is  a  judgment  of  the  few; 
and  so,  in  a  sense,  are  all  finer  judgments.  The  point  is 
that  the  many  have  the  sense  to  adopt  them. 

And  let  us  note  that  those  collective  judgments  in  lit- 
erature, art  and  science  which  have  exalted  Plato  and 
Dante  and  Leonardo  and  Michelangelo  and  Beethoven 
and  Newton  and  Darwin,  are  democratic  judgments,  in 
the  sense  that  every  man  has  been  free  to  take  a  part  in 
proportion  to  his  capacity,  precisely  as  the  citizen  of  a 
democracy  is  free  to  take  a  part  in  politics.  Wealth  and 
station  have  occasionally  tried  to  dictate  in  these  matters, 
but  have  failed. 

It  is  natural  for  an  organism  to  use  its  appropriate 
organ,  and  it  would  be  as  reasonable  to  say  that  the  ca- 
pacity of  the  body  for  seeing  is  found  by  taking  an  average 
of  the  visual  power  of  the  hand,  nose,  liver,  etc.,  along 
with  that  of  the  eye,  as  that  the  capacity  of  a  group  for  a 
special  purpose  is  that  of  its  average  member.  If  a  group 
does  not  function  through  its  most  competent  instru- 
ments, it  is  simply  because  of  imperfect  organization. 

125 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

It  IS  strange  that  people  who  apply  the  average  theory 
to  democracy  do  not  see  that  if  it  were  sound  it  must  ap- 
ply to  all  the  social  phenomena  of  history,  which  is  a  record 
of  the  works  of  the  collective  mind.  Since  the  main 
difference  between  democracy  and  ancient  or  mediaeval 
systems  is  merely  that  the  former  is  less  restricted  by  time, 
space  and  caste,  is  essentially  an  appeal  to  free  human 
power  as  against  what  is  merely  mechanical  or  conven- 
tional; by  what  magic  is  this  appeal  to  deprive  us  of  our 
ancient  privilege  of  acting  through  our  efficient  individuals  ? 

One  who  ponders  these  things  will  see  that  the  princi- 
ples of  collective  expression  are  the  same  now  as  ever,  and 
that  the  special  difficulties  of  our  time  arise  partly  from 
confusion,  due  to  the  pace  of  change,  and  partly  from  the 
greater  demands  which  a  free  system  makes  upon  human 
capacity.  The  question  is,  whether,  in  practice,  de- 
mocracy is  capable  of  the  effective  expression  to  which 
no  very  serious  theoretical  obstacle  can  be  discerned. 
It  is  a  matter  of  doing  a  rather  simple  thing  on  a  vaster  and 
more  complicated  scale  than  in  the  past. 

Public  opinion  is  no  uniform  thing,  as  we  are  apt  to 
assume,  but  has  its  multifarious  differentiations.  We 
may  roughly  distinguish  a  general  opinion,  in  which  al- 
most everybody  in  the  community  has  a  part,  and  an  in- 
finite diversity  of  special  or  class  opinions — of  the  family, 
the  club,  the  school-room,  the  party,  the  union,  and  so  on. 

And  there  is  an  equal  diversity  in  the  kind  of  thought 
with  which  the  public  mind  may  be  concerned:  the  con- 
tent may  be  of  almost  any  sort.  Thus  there  are  group 
ideals,  like  the  American  ideal  of  indissoluble  unity  among 

126 


THE  THEORY  OF  PUBLIC  OPINION 

the  states,  the  French  ideal  of  national  glory,  or  the  ideals 
of  honor  and  good-breeding  cherished  in  many  families; 
and  there  are  group  beliefs,  regarding  religion,  trade, 
agriculture,  marriage,  education  and  the  like.  Upon  all 
matters  in  which  the  mind  has,  in  the  past,  taken  a  lively 
interest  there  are  latent  inclinations  and  prepossessions, 
and  when  these  are  aroused  and  organized  by  discussion 
they  combine  with  other  elements  to  form  public  opinion. 
Mr.  Higginson,  recounting  his  experience  in  the  Massa- 
chusetts legislature,  speaks  of  "certain  vast  and  inscruta- 
ble undercurrents  of  prejudice  .  .  .  which  could  never 
be  comprehended  by  academic  minds,  or  even  city-bred 
minds,"  but  which  were  usually  irresistible.  They  re- 
lated to  the  rights  of  towns,  the  public  school  system,  the 
law  of  settlement,  roads,  navigable  streams,  breadth  of 
wheels,  close  time  of  fishing,  etc.  ''Every  good  debater 
in  the  House,  and  every  one  of  its  recognized  legal  au- 
thorities, might  be  on  one  side,  and  yet  the  smallest  con- 
test with  one  of  these  latent  prejudices  would  land  them 
in  a  minority."* 

This  diversity  merely  reflects  the  complexity  of  organ- 
ization, current  opinion  and  discussion  being  a  pervasive 
activity,  essential  to  growth,  that  takes  place  throughout 
the  system  at  large  and  in  each  particular  member. 
General  opinion  existing  alone,  without  special  types  of 
thought  as  in  the  various  departments  of  science  and  art, 
would  indicate  a  low  type  of  structure,  more  like  a  mob 
than  a  rational  society.  It  is  upon  these  special  types,  and 
the  individuals  that  speak  for  them,  that  we  rely  for  the 

*  On  the  Outskirts  of  Public  Life,  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Feb., 
1898. 

127 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

guidance  of  general  opinion  (as,  for  Instance,  we  rely  upon 
economists  to  teach  us  what  to  think  about  the  currency), 
and  the  absence  of  mature  speciality  involves  weakness 
and  flatness  of  general  achievement.  This  fault  is  often 
charged  to  democracy,  but  it  should  rather  be  said  that 
democracy  is  substituting  a  free  type  of  speciality,  based 
upon  choice,  for  the  old  type  based  upon  caste,  and 
that  whatever  deficiency  exists  in  this  regard  is  due 
chiefly  to  the  confused  conditions  that  accompany  transi- 
tion. 

General  public  opinion  has  less  scope  than  Is  commonly 
imagined.  It  is  true  that  with  the  new  communication, 
the  whole  people,  if  they  are  enough  interested,  may  form 
public  judgments  even  upon  transient  questions.  But 
it  is  not  possible,  nor  indeed  desirable,  that  they  should 
be  enough  interested  in  many  questions  to  form  such 
judgments.  A  likeness  of  spirit  and  principle  is  essential 
to  moral  unity,  but  as  regards  details  differentiation  is 
and  should  be  the  rule.  The  work  of  the  world  is  mostly 
of  a  special  character,  and  it  is  quite  as  important  that  a 
man  should  mind  his  own  business — that  Is,  his  own  par- 
ticular kind  of  general  service — as  that  he  should  have 
public  spirit.  Perhaps  we  may  say  that  the  main  thing 
is  to  mind  his  private  business  in  a  public  spirit — always  re- 
membering that  men  who  are  in  a  position  to  do  so  should 
make  it  their  private  business  to  attend  to  public  affairs. 
It  is  not  indolence  and  routine,  altogether,  but  also  an 
inevitable  conflict  of  claims,  that  makes  men  slow  to  exert 
their  minds  upon  general  questions,  and  underlies  the 
political  maxim  that  you  cannot  arouse  public  opinion 

128 


THE  THEORY  OF  PUBLIC  OPINION 

upon  more  than  one  matter  at  a  time.  It  is  better  that 
the  public,  Uke  the  general-in-chief  of  an  army,  should  be 
relieved  of  details  and  free  to  concentrate  its  thought  on 
essential  choices. 

I  have  only  a  limited  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  the  refer- 
endum and  similar  devices  for  increased  participation  of 
the  people  ^t  large  in  the  details  of  legislation.  In  so  far 
as  these  facilitate  the  formation  and  expression  of  public 
will  upon  matters  to  which  the  public  is  prepared  to  give 
earnest  and  continuous  attention,  they  are  serviceable;  but 
if  many  questions  are  submitted,  or  those  of  a  technical 
character,  the  people  become  confused  or  indifferent, 
and  the  real  power  falls  into  the  hands  of  the  few  who 
manage  the  machinery. 

The  questions  which  can  profitably  be  decided  by  this 
direct  and  general  judgment  of  the  public  are  chiefly  those 
of  organic  change  or  readjustment,  such,  for  instance,  as 
the  contemporary  question  of  what  part  the  government 
is  to  take  in  relation  to  the  consolidation  of  industries. 
These  the  people  must  decide,  since  no  lesser  power  will 
be  submitted  to,  but  routine  activities,  in  society  as  in 
individuals,  are  carried  on  without  arousing  a  general 
consciousness.  The  people  are  also,  as  I  shall  shortly 
point  out,  peculiarly  fit  to  make  choice  among  conspicuous 
personalities. 

Specialists  of  all  sorts — masons,  soldiers,  chemists, 
lawyers,  bankers,  even  statesmen  and  public  officials — are 
ruled  for  the  most  part  by  the  opinion  of  their  special 
group,  and  have  litde  immediate  dependence  upon  the 
general  public,  which  will  not  concern  itself  with  them  so 

129 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

long  as  their  work  Is  not  palpably  Inefficient  or  In  some 
(vay  distasteful. 

Yet  special  phases  of  thought  are  not  really  independent, 
but  are  to  be  looked  upon  as  the  work  of  the  public  mind 
acting  with  a  less  general  consciousness — partly  automatic 
like  the  action  of  the  legs  in  walking.  They  are  still  re- 
sponsible to  the  general  state  of  opinion;  and  it  is  usually 
a  general  need  of  the  special  product,  as  shoes,  banks, 
education,  medical  aid  and  so  on,  that  gives  the  special 
group  its  pecuniary  support  and  social  standing.  More- 
over, the  general  interest  in  a  particular  group  is  likely 
to  become  awakened  and  critical  when  the  function  is 
disturbed,  as  with  the  building  trades  or  the  coal-mine  oper- 
ators in  case  of  a  strike;  or  when  it  becomes  peculiarly 
important,  as  with  the  army  in  time  of  war.  Then  is  the 
day  of  reckoning  when  the  specialist  has  to  render  an 
account  of  the  talents  entrusted  to  him. 

The  separateness  of  the  special  group  Is  also  limited 
by  personality,  by  the  fact  that  the  men  who  perform  the 
specialty  do  not  in  other  matters  think  apart  from  the  rest 
of  the  society,  but,  in  so  far  as  it  is  a  moral  whole,  share  its 
general  spirit  and  are  the  same  men  who,  all  taken  together, 
are  the  seat  of  public  opinion.  How  far  the  different 
departments  of  a  man's  mind,  corresponding  to  general 
and  special  opinion,  may  be  ruled  by  different  principles, 
is  a  matter  of  interest  from  the  fact  that  every  one  of  us 
is  the  theatre  of  a  conflict  of  moral  standards  arising  in 
this  way.  It  is  evident  by  general  observation  and  con- 
fession that  we  usually  accept  without  much  criticism  the 
principles  we  become  accustomed  to  in  each  sphere  of 

130 


THE  THEORY  OF  PUBLIC  OPINION 

activity,  whether  consistent  with  one  another  or  not. 
Yet  this  Is  not  rational,  and  there  Is  and  must  ever  be  a 
striving  of  conscience  to  redress  such  conflicts,  which  are 
really  divisions  in  society  Itself,  and  tend  toward  anarchy. 
It  Is  an  easy  but  weak  defence  of  low  principles  of  conduct, 
in  business,  in  politics,  in  war.  In  paying  taxes,  to  say  that 
a  special  standard  prevails  in  this  sphere,  and  that  our 
behavior  is  justified  by  custom.  We  cannot  wholly  es- 
cape from  the  customary,  but  conscience  should  require  of 
ourselves  and  others  an  honest  effort  to  raise  its  standard, 
even  at  much  sacrifice  of  lower  aims.  Such  efforts  are 
the  only  source  of  betterment,  and  without  them  society 
must  deteriorate. 

In  other  words,  it  is  the  chief  and  perhaps  the  only 
method  of  moral  and  intellectual  progress  that  the  thought 
and  sentiment  pertaining  to  the  various  activities  should 
mingle  in  the  mind,  and  that  whatever  Is  higher  or  more 
rational  In  each  should  raise  the  standard  of  the  others. 
If  one  finds  that  as  a  business  man  he  tends  to  be  greedy 
and  narrow,  he  should  call  into  that  sphere  his  sentiments 
as  a  patriot,  a  member  of  a  family  and  a  student,  and  he 
may  enrich  these  latter  provinces  by  the  system  and 
shrewdness  he  learns  in  business.  The  keeping  of  closed 
compartments  is  a  principle  of  stagnation  and  decay. 

The  rule  of  public  opinion,  then,  means  for  the  most 
part  a  latent  authority  which  the  public  will  exercise  when 
sufficiently  dissatisfied  with  the  specialist  who  is  in  im- 
mediate charge  of  a  particular  function.  It  cannot  extend 
to  the  immediate  participation  of  the  group  as  a  whole 
in  the  details  of  public  business. 

131 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

This  principle  holds  good  in  the  conduct  of  government 
as  well  as  elsewhere,  experience  showing  that  the  politics 
of  an  intricate  state  is  always  a  specialty,  closer  ta  the 
public  interest,  perhaps,  than  most  specialties,  but  ordi- 
narily controlled  by  those  who,  for  whatever  reason,  put 
their  main  energy  into  it.  Professional  politicians,  in 
this  sense,  are  sure  to  win  as  against  the  amateur;  and 
if  politics  is  badly  managed  the  chief  remedy  is  to  raise 
the  level  of  the  profession. 

De  Tocqueville  says  that "  the  people  reign  in  the  Ameri- 
can political  world  as  the  Deity  does  in  the  universe. 
They  are  the  cause  and  the  aim  of  all  things;  everything 
comes  from  them  and  is  absorbed  by  them."*  And  we 
may  add  that,  also  like  the  Deity,  they  do  things  through 
agents  in  whom  the  supposed  attributes  of  their  master 
are  much  obscured. 

There  are  some  who  say  we  have  no  democracy,  be- 
cause much  is  done,  in  government  as  elsewhere,  in  neglect 
or  defiance  of  general  sentiment.  But  the  same  is  true 
under  any  form  of  sovereignty;  indeed,  much  more  true 
under  monarchy  or  oligarchy  than  under  our  form.  The 
rule  of  the  people  is  surely  more  real  and  pervasive  than 
that  of  Louis  XIV  or  Henry  VIII.  No  sovereign  possesses 
completely  its  instruments,  but  democracy  perhaps  does 
so  more  nearly  than  any  other. 

When  an  important  function,  such  as  government,  or 
trade  or  education,  is  not  performed  to  the  satisfaction 
of  watchful  consciences,  the  remedy  is  somewhat  as  fol- 
lows. A  rather  general  moral  sentiment  regarding  the 
matter  must  be  aroused  by  publishing  the  facts  and  ex- 
*  Democracy  in  America,  vol.  i,  chap.  4. 
132 


THE  THEORY  OF  PUBLIC  OPINION 

posing  their  inconsistency  with  underlying  standards  of 
right.  This  sentiment  will  effect  little  so  long  as  it  is 
merely  general,  but  if  vigorous  it  rapidly  begets  organs 
through  which  to  work.  It  is  the  nature  of  such  a  senti- 
ment to  stimulate  particular  individuals  or  groups  to 
organize  and  effectuate  it.  The  press  has  a  motive  to 
exploit  and  increase  it  by  vivid  exposition  of  the  state  of 
affairs;  enthusiasm,  seeking  for  an  outlet,  finds  it  in  this 
direction;  ambition  and  even  pecuniaryinterest  are  enlisted 
to  gratify  the  demand.  Effective  leadership  thus  arises, 
and  organization,  which  thrives  in  the  warmth  of  public 
attention,  is  not  long  wanting.  Civic  leagues  and  the  like 
— supposing  that  it  is  a  matter  of  politics — unite  with 
trusted  leaders  and  the  independent  press  to  guide  the 
voter  in  choosing  between  honesty  and  corruption.  The 
moral  standard  of  the  professional  group  begins  to  rise: 
a  few  offenders  are  punished,  many  are  alarmed,  and 
things  which  every  one  has  been  doing  or  conniving  at 
are  felt  as  wrong.  In  a  vigorous  democracy  like  that  of 
the  United  States,  this  process  is  ever  going  on,  on  a  great 
scale  and  in  innumerable  minor  groups :  the  public  mind, 
like  a  careful  farmer,  moves  about  its  domain,  hoeing 
weeds,  mending  fences  and  otherwise  setting  things  to 
rights,  undeterred  by  the  fact  that  the  work  will  not  stay 
done. 

Such  regeneration  implies  the  existence  of  a  real, 
though  perhaps  latent,  moral  unity  in  the  group  whose 
standards  are  thus  revived  and  applied.  It  is,  for  instance, 
of  untold  advantage  to  all  righteous  movements  in  the 
United  States,  that  the  nation  traditionally  exists  to  the 

13.^ 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

ends  of  justice,  freedom  and  humanity.  This  tradition 
means  that  there  is  already  a  noble  and  cherished  ideal, 
no  sincere  appeal  to  which  is  vain;  and  we  could  as  well 
dispense  with  the  wisdom  of  the  Constitution  as  with  the 
sentiment  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 

On  the  same  principle,  it  is  a  chief  factor  in  the  misgov- 
ernment  of  our  cities  that  they  are  mostly  too  new  and 
heterogeneous  to  have  an  established  consciousness.  As 
soon  as  the  people  feel  their  unity,  we  may  hopefully  look 
for  civic  virtue  and  devotion,  because  these  things  require 
a  social  medium  in  which  to  work.  A  man  wull  not  de- 
vote himself,  ordinarily,  where  there  is  no  distinct  and 
human  whole  to  devote  himself  to,  no  mind  in  which  his 
devotion  will  be  recognized  and  valued.  But  to  a  vital 
and  enduring  group  devotion  is  natural,  and  we  may 
expect  that  a  self-conscious  city,  state,  university  or  pro- 
fession will  prove  to  be  a  theatre  of  the  magnanimous 
virtues. 


im 


CHAPTER  XIII 

WHAT  THE  MASSES  CONTRIBUTE 

The  Masses  the  Initiators  of  Sentiment — They  Live  in  the 
Central  Current  of  Experience — Distinction  or  Privilege 
Apt  to  Cause  Isolation — Institutional  Character  of 
Upper  Classes — The  Masses  Shrewd  Judges  of  Persons— 
This  the  Main  Ground  for  Expecting  that  the  People  Will 
Be  Right  in  the  Long  Run — Democracy  Always  Repre- 
sentative— Conclusion. 

The  function  of  leaders  in  defining  and  organizing 
the  confused  tendencies  of  the  pubUc  mind  is  evident 
enough,  but  just  what  the  masses  themselves  contribute 
is  perhaps  not  so  apparent.*  The  thought  of  the  un- 
distinguished many  is,  however,  not  less  important,  not 
necessarily  less  original,  than  that  of  the  conspicuous  few; 
the  originality  of  the  latter,  just  because  it  is  more  con- 
spicuous, being  easy  to  overestimate.  Leadership  is 
only  salient  initiative;  and  among  the  many  there  may 
well  be  increments  of  initiative  which  though  not  salient 
are  yet  momentous  as  a  whole. 

The  originality  of  the  masses  is  to  be  found  not  so  much 
in  formulated  idea  as  in  sentiment.  In  capacity  to  feel 
and  to  trust  those  sentiments  which  it  is  the  proper  aim 
of  social  development  to  express,  they  are,  perhaps,  com- 
monly superior  to  the  more  distinguished  or  privileged 
classes.    The   reason   is    that   their   experience   usually 

*  Some  discussion  of  leadership  will  be  found  in  Human  Nature 
and  the  Social  Order,  chaps.  8  and  9. 

135 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

keeps  them  closer  to  the  springs  of  human  nature,  and 
so  more  under  the  control  of  its  primary  impulses. 

Radical  movements  aiming  to  extend  the  application 
of  higher  sentiment  have  generally  been  pushed  on  by  the 
common  people,  rather  than  by  privileged  orders,  or  by 
conspicuous  leadership  of  any  sort.^  This  seems  to  be 
true  of  Christianity  in  all  ages,  and  of  the  many  phases 
of  modern  democracy  and  enfranchisement.  In  American 
history,  particularly,  both  the  revolution  which  gave  us 
independence  and  the  civil  war  which  abolished  slavery 
and  reunited  the  country,  were  more  generally  and  stead- 
fastly supported  by  the  masses  than  by  people  of  edu- 
cation or  wealth.  Mr.  Higginson,  writing  on  the  Cow- 
ardice of  Culture,t  asserts  that  at  the  opening  of  the 
Revolution  the  men  of  wealth  and  standing  who  took  the 
side  of  liberty  were  so  few  that  they  could  be  counted,  and 
that  ''there  was  never  a  period  in  our  history,  since  the 
American  Nation  was  independent,  when  it  would  not 
have  been  a  calamity  to  have  it  controlled  by  its  highly 
educated  men  alone."  And  in  England  also  it  was  the 
masses  who  upheld  abolition  in  the  colonies  and  sympa- 
thized with  the  North  in  the  American  struggle. 

The  common  people,  as  a  rule,  live  more  in  the  central 
current  of  human  experience  than  men  of  wealth  or  dis- 
tinction. Domestic  morality,  religious  sentiment,  faith 
in  man  and  God,  loyalty  to  country  and  the  like,  are  the 
fruit  of  the  human  heart  growing  in  homely  conditions, 

*  So  Mr.  Bryce,  The  American  Commonwealth,  chap.  76.  Some 
emphasis  should  be  given  to  the  phrase  "  pushed  on,"  as  distinguished 
from  "initiated." 

t  In  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Oct.,  1905. 

136 


WHAT  THE  MASSES  CONTRIBUTE 

and  they  easily  wither  when  these  conditions  are  lost. 
To  be  one  among  many,  without  individual  pretension, 
is  in  one  way  a  position  of  security  and  grandeur  One 
stands,  as  it  were,  with  the  human  race  at  his  back,  sharing 
its  claim  on  truth,  justice  and  God.  Qui  qucerit  habere 
privata  amittit  communia;  *  the  plain  man  has  not  con- 
spicuously gained  private  things,  and  should  be  all  the 
richer  in  things  that  are  common,  in  faith  and  fellowship. 
Nothing,  perhaps,  is  healthy  that  isolates  us  from  the  com- 
mon destiny  of  men,  that  is  merely  appropriative  and  not 
functional,  that  is  not  such  as  all  might  rejoice  in  if  they 
understood  it. 

Miss  Jane  Addams  has  advanced  a  theory,t  far  from 
absurd,  that  the  confused  and  deprived  masses  of  our  cities, 
collected  from  all  lands  by  immigration,  are  likely  to  be 
the  initiators  of  new  and  higher  ideals  for  our  civilization. 
Since  "ideals  are  born  of  situations,"  they  are  perhaps 
well  situated  for  such  a  function  by  the  almost  complete 
destruction,  so  far  as  they  are  concerned,  of  old  traditions 
and  systems.  In  this  promiscuous  mingling  of  elements 
everything  is  cancelled  but  human  nature,  and  they  are 
thrown  back  upon  that  for  a  new  start.  They  are  an 
"unencumbered  proletariat'*  notable  for  primary  faith 
and  kindness,  ''simple  people  who  carry  in  their  hearts 
a  desire  for  mere  goodness.  They  regularly  deplete  their 
scanty  livelihood  in  response  to  a  primitive  pity,  and,  in- 
dependent of  the  religions  they  have  professed,  of  the 
wrongs  they  have  suffered,  and  of  the  fixed  morality  they 

*  Who  seeks  to  have  private  things  loses  common  things.     Thomaa 
k  Kempis,  De  Imitatione  Christi,  book  iii,  chap.  13,  sec.  1. 
t  In  her  book,  Newer  Ideals  of  Peace. 

137 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

have  been  taught,  they  have  an  unquenchable  desire  that 
charity  and  simple  justice  shall  regulate  men's  relations."* 

Some  tendency  to  isolation  and  spiritual  impoverish- 
ment is  likely  to  go  with  any  sort  of  distinction  or  privilege. 
Wealth,  culture,  reputation,  bring  special  gratifications. 
These  foster  special  tastes,  and  these  in  turn  give  rise  to 
special  ways  of  living  and  thinking  which  imperceptibly 
separate  one  from  common  sympathy  and  put  him  in  a 
special  class.  If  one  has  a  good  income,  for  instance,  how 
natural  it  is  to  spend  it,  and  how  naturally,  also,  that 
expenditure  withdraws  one  from  familiar  intercourse 
with  people  v/ho  have  not  a  good  income.  Success  means 
possessions,  and  possessions  are  apt  to  imprison  the  spirit. 

It  has  always  been  held  that  worldly  goods,  which  of 
course  include  reputation  as  well  as  wealth,  make  the 
highest  life  of  the  mind  difficult  if  not  impossible,  devo- 
tional orders  in  nearly  all  religions  requiring  personal 
poverty  and  lowliness  as  the  condition  of  edification. 
Tantum,  homo  impeditur  et  distrahitur,  quantum  sibi  res 
aUrahit.'\  ''Sloth  or  cowardice,"  says  a  psychologist, 
"creep  in  with  every  dollar  or  guinea  we  have  to  guard 
.  .  .  lives  based  on  having  are  less  free  than  lives  based 
on  either  doing  or  being."|  "It  is  easier  for  a  camel  to 
pass  through  the  eye  of  a  needle."  Not  for  nothing  have 
men  of  insight  agreed  upon  such  propositions  as  these. 

Distinction,  also,  is  apt  to  go  with  an  exaggerated  self- 
consciousness  litde  favorable   to  a   natural   and   heartj^ 

♦Newer  Ideals  of  Peace,  chap.  1. 

f  De  Imitatione  Christi,  book  ii,  chap.  1,  sec.  7. 

X  William  James,  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience,  319. 

138 


WHAT  THE  MASSES  CONTRIBUTE 

participation  in  the  deeper  currents  of  the  general  Hfe. 
Ambition  and  the  passion  for  difference  are  good  in  their 
way,  but  like  most  good  things  they  are  bought  at  a  price, 
in  this  case  a  preoccupation  with  ideas  that  separate  one 
from  immediate  fellowship.  It  is  right  to  have  high  and 
unusual  aims  and  activities,  but  hard  to  keep  them  free 
from  pride,  mistrust,  gloom  and  other  vices  of  isolation. 
Only  a  very  sane  mind  can  carry  distinction  and  fellow- 
ship without  spilling  either. 

In  the  social  regard  paid  to  wealth  and  standing  we 
symbolize  our  vague  sense  of  the  value  of  personal  faculty 
working  in  the  service  of  the  whole,  but  it  requires  an 
unusual  purity  and  depth  of  social  feeling  for  the  possessor 
of  faculty  not  to  be  demoralized  by  this  regard,  which  is — • 
perhaps  necessarily — almost  disassociated  from  definite 
and  cogent  responsibility.  I  mean  that  the  eminent  usually 
get  the  credit  of  virtue  as  it  were  ex  officio,  whether  they 
really  have  it  or  not.  We  find  therefore  that  power,  in- 
stead of  being  simply  higher  service,  is  generally  more 
or  less  corrupt  or  selfish,  and  those  who  are  raised  up  are 
so  much  the  more  cast  down.  At  the  best  they  make  some 
sacrifice  of  innocence  to  function;  at  the  worst  they  de- 
stroy themselves  and  debauch  society. 

Even  vulgarity  (by  etymology  the  vice  of  the  crowd) 
if  we  take  it  to  mean  undisciplined  selfishness  and  pre- 
tension, flourishes  at  least  as  much  among  the  prosperous 
as  among  the  handworking  people.  Wealth  which  is  not 
dominated  by  noble  tradition  or  by  rare  personal  inspira- 
tion falls  into  vulgarity  because  it  permits  the  inflation  of 
those  crude  impulses  which  are  much  kept  down  in  the 
poor  by  the  discipline  of  hardship.     Whatever  is  severely 

139 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

necessary  can  never  be  vulgar,  while  only  nobleness  can 
prevent  the  superfluous  from  being  so.  And  a  superficial, 
functionless  education  and  refinement  is  nearly  as  vulgar 
as  uninspired  wealth.  So  it  has  been  remarked  that  when 
artists  paint  our  contemporary  life  they  are  apt  to  choose 
it  as  humble  as  possible  in  order  "  to  get  down  below  the 
strata  which  vulgarity  permeates."* 

Moreover,  conspicuous  and  successful  persons  are  more 
likely  than  the  commonalty  to  be  institutionized,  to  have 
sacrificed  human  nature  to  speciality.  To  succeed  in  the 
hour  one  must  be  a  man  of  the  hour,  and  must  ordinarily 
harness  his  very  soul  to  some  sort  of  contemporary  activity 
which  may  after  all  be  of  no  real  worth.  An  upper  class 
is  institutional  in  its  very  essence,  since  it  is  control  of 
institutions  that  makes  it  an  upper  class,  and  men  can 
hardly  keep  this  control  except  as  they  put  their  hearts 
into  it.  Successful  business  men,  lawyers,  politicians, 
clergymen,  editors  and  the  like  are  such  through  identify- 
ing their  minds,  for  better  or  worse,  with  the  present  ac- 
tivities and  ideals  of  commercial  and  other  institutions. 
"Seldom  does  the  new  conscience,  when  it  seeks  a  teacher 
to  declare  to  men  what  is  wrong,  find  him  in  the  dignitaries 
of  the  church,  the  state,  the  culture,  that  is.  The  higher 
the  rank  the  closer  the  tie  that  binds  those  to  what  is  but 
ought  not  to  be."t 

The  humbler  classes  are  somewhat  less  entangled  in 
spirit.  It  is  better  to  have  the  hand  subdued  to  what  it 
works  in  than  the  soul;  and  the  mechanic  who  sells  to  the 

*  P.  G.  Hamerton,  Thoughts  About  Art,  222. 
f  Henry  D.  Lloyd,  Man  the  Social  Creator,  lOX. 

140 


WHAT  THE  MASSES  CONTRIBUTE 

times  only  his  ten  hours  a  day  of  muscular  work  Is  perhaps 
more  free  to  think  humanly  the  rest  of  the  time  than  his 
employer.  He  can  also  more  easily  keep  the  habit  of 
simple  look  and  speech,  since  he  does  not  have  to  learn 
to  conceal  his  thoughts  in  the  same  degree  that  the  lawyer, 
the  merchant  and  the  statesman  do.  Even  among 
students  I  have  observed,  in  the  matter  of  openness  of 
countenance,  a  marked  difference,  on  the  whole,  between 
the  graduates  of  an  engineering  school  and  those  of  a  law 
school,  very  much  in  favor  of  the  former.*  Again,  the 
hand  laborer  is  used  to  reckoning  his  wages  by  the  hour — ■ 
so  much  time  so  much  pay — and  would  feel  dishonest  if 
he  did  anything  else.  But  in  the  professions,  and  still 
more  in  commerce  and  finance,  there  is,  as  a  rule,  no  definite 
measure  of  service,  and  men  insensibly  come  to  base  their 
charges  on  their  view  of  what  the  other  man  will  pay;  thus 
perilously  accustoming  themselves  to  exploit  the  wealth 
or  weakness  of  others. 

The  life  of  special  institutions  is  often  transient  in  pro- 
portion to  its  speciality,  and  it  is  only  natural  that  com- 
mercial and  professional  activity  should  deal  largely  with 
evanescent  interests  of  little  dignity  in  themselves.  The 
** demand'*  of  the  public  which  the  merchant  has  to  meet, 
is  in  great  part  a  thing  of  vanity,  if  not  of  degradation, 
which  it  can  hardly  be  edifying  to  supply.  Indeed,  many, 
if  not  most,  busines:i  men  play  their  occupation  as  a  game, 
rather  than  in  a  spirit  of  service,  and  are  widely  infected 
by  the  fallacy  that  they  are  justified  in  selling  anything 

*  I  mean  merely  that  the  law  graduates  look  sophisticated — not 
dishonest.  They  have  learned  to  use  voice  and  facial  expression 
as  weapons  of  controversy. 

141 


SOCIAI.  ORGANIZATION 

that  the  people  will  buy.  Simple  minds  are  revolted  by 
the  lack  of  tangible  human  service  in  many  of  the  higher- 
paid  occupations,  and  young  men  enter  them  for  the  pay 
alone  when  their  better  impulses  would  lead  them  to  pre- 
fer hand  labor. 

The  sentiment  of  the  people  is  most  readily  and  suc- 
cessfully exercised  in  their  judgment  of  persons.  Mon- 
tesquieu, in  discussing  republican  government,  advocated 
on  this  ground  an  almost  universal  manhood  suffrage  in 
the  choosing  of  representatives.  *'For,"  says  he,  ''though 
few  can  tell  the  exact  degree  of  men's  capacities,  yet  there 
are  none  but  are  capable  of  knowing  in  general  whether 
the  person  they  choose  is  better  qualified  than  most  of 
his  neighbors."*  The  plainest  men  have  an  inbred 
shrewdness  in  judging  human  nature  which  makes  them 
good  critics  of  persons  even  when  impenetrable  to  ideas. 
This  shrewdness  is  fostered  by  a  free  society,  in  which 
every  one  has  to  make  and  hold  his  own  place  among  his 
fellows;  and  it  is  used  with  much  effect  in  politics  and 
elsewhere  as  a  guide  to  sound  ideas. 

Some  years  ago,  for  instance,  occurred  a  national  elec- 
tion in  which  the  main  issue  was  whether  silver  should  or 
should  not  be  coined  freely  at  a  rate  much  above  its  bullion 
value.  Two  facts  were  impressed  upon  the  observer  of 
this  campaign:  first,  the  inability  of  most  men,  even  of 
education,  to  reason  clearly  on  a  somewhat  abstract  ques- 
tion lying  outside  of  their  daily  experience,  and,  second, 
the  sound  instinct  which  all  sorts  of  people  showed  in 
choosing  sides  through  leadership.  The  flow  of  nonsense 
*  The  Spirit  of  Laws,  book  xi,  chap.  6. 
142 


WHAT  THE  MASSES  CONTRIBUTE 

on  both  parts  was  remarkable,  but  personality  was  the 
determining  influence.  It  was  common  to  hear  men  say 
that  they  should  vote  for  or  against  the  proposition  because 
they  did  or  did  not  trust  its  conspicuous  advocates;  and 
it  was  evident  that  many  were  controlled  in  this  way  who 
did  not  acknowledge  it,  even  to  themselves.  The  general 
result  was  that  the  more  conservative  men  were  united 
on  one  side,  and  the  more  radical  and  shifting  elements 
on  the  other. 

The  real  interest  of  the  voter  at  our  elections  is  usually 
in  personality.  One  likes  or  dislikes  A,  who  is  running  for 
alderman,  and  votes  accordingly,  without  knowing  or 
caring  what  he  is  likely  to  do  if  elected.     Or  one  opposes 

B,  because  he  is  believed  to  be  in  league  with  the  obnoxious 

C,  and  so  on.  It  is  next  to  impossible  to  get  a  large  or  in- 
telligent vote  on  an  impersonal  matter,  such  as  the  con- 
stitutional amendments  which,  in  most  of  our  states,  have 
to  be  submitted  to  the  people.  The  newspapers,  reflecting 
the  public  taste,  say  little  about  them,  and  the  ordinary 
voter  learns  of  them  for  the  first  time  when  he  comes  to 
the  polls.  Only  a  measure  which  directly  affects  the 
interests  or  passions  of  the  people,  like  prohibition  of  the 
liquor  traflac,  will  call  out  a  large  vote. 

On  this  shrewd  judgment  of  persons  the  advocate  of 
democracy  chiefly  grounds  his  faith  that  the  people  will 
be  right  in  the  long  run.  The  old  argument  against  him 
runs  as  follows:  democracy  is  the  rule  of  the  many;  the 
many  are  incompetent  to  understand  public  questions; 
hence  democracy  is  the  rule  of  incompetence.  Thus 
Macaulay  held  that  institutions  purely  democratic  must 

143 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

sooner  or  later  destroy  liberty  or  civilization  or  ooth;  and 
expected  a  day  of  spoliation  in  the  United  States,  ''for 
with  you  the  majority  is  the  government  and  has  the  rich 
absolutely  at  its  xnercy."*  More  recent  writers  of  stand- 
ing have  taken  the  same  view,  like  Lecky,  who  de- 
clares that  the  rule  of  the  majority  is  the  rule  of  igno- 
rance, since  the  poor  and  the  ignorant  are  the  largest  pro- 
portion of  the  population.f 

To  this  our  democrat  will  answer,  ''The  many,  whether 
rich  or  poor,  are  incompetent  to  grasp  the  truth  in  its 
abstractness,  but  they  reach  it  through  personal  symbols, 
they  feel  their  way  by  sympathy,  and  their  conclusions 
V  are  at  least  as  apt  to  be  right  as  those  of  any  artificially 
selected  class."  And  he  will  perhaps  turn  to  American 
history,  which  is,  on  the  whole,  a  fairly  convincing  demon- 
stration that  the  masses  are  not  incapable  of  temperate 
and  wise  decision,  even  on  matters  of  much  difficulty. 
That  our  antecedents  and  training  have  been  peculiarly 
fortunate  must  be  conceded. 

The  crudely  pessimistic  view  is  superficial  not  only  In 
underestimating  the  masses  and  overestimating  wealth — 
which  is,  in  our  times  at  least,  almost  the  only  possible 
basis  of  a  privileged  class — but  in  failing  to  understand 
the  organic  character  of  a  mature  public  judgment.  Is  it 
not  a  rather  obvious  fallacy  to  say  that  because  the  igno- 
rant outnumber  the  educated,  therefore  the  rule  of  the 
majority  is  the  rule  of  ignorance?     If  fifty  men  consult 

*  From  a  letter  written  to  an  American  correspondent  in  1857  and 
printed  in  the  appendix  to  Trevelyan's  Macaulay. 

t  Democracy  and  Liberty,  vol.  i,  chap.  1,  page  25  and  passim. 
Some  of  Lecky's  expressions,  however,  are  more  favorable  to  de- 
mocracy 

144 


WHAT  THE  MASSES  CONTRIBUTE 

together,  forty  of  whom  are  Ignorant  regarding  the  matter 
in  hand  and  ten  informed,  will  their  conclusions  necessarily 
be  those  of  ignorance?  Evidently  not,  unless  in  some 
improbable  manner  the  forty  separate  from  the  ten  and 
refuse  to  be  guided  by  them.  Savages  and  gangs  of  boys 
on  the  street  choose  the  most  sagacious  to  lead  in  counsel, 
and  even  pirates  will  put  the  best  navigators  in  charge  of 
the  ship.  The  natural  thing,  as  we  have  seen,  is  for  a 
group  to  defer  to  its  most  competent  members.  Lecky 
would  himself  have  maintained  this  in  the  case  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  why  should  it  not  be  true  of  other  groups  ?  I 
see  no  reason  why  the  rule  of  the  majority  should  be  the 
rule  of  ignorance,  unless  they  are  not  only  ignorant  but 
fools;  and  I  do  not  suppose  the  common  people  of  any 
capable  race  are  that. 

I  was  born  and  have  lived  nearly  all  my  life  in  the 
shadow  of  an  institution  of  higher  learning,  a  university, 
supported  out  of  the  taxes  of  a  democratic  state  and  gov- 
erned by  a  board  elected  directly  by  the  people.  So  far 
back  as  I  can  remember  there  have  not  been  wanting 
pessimists  to  say  that  the  institution  could  not  prosper 
on  such  a  basis.  *'What,"  they  said,  '*do  the  farmers 
know  or  care  about  the  university?  how  can  we  expect 
that  they  should  support  astronomy  and  Sanscrit  and  the 
higher  mathematics  ?''  In  fact  there  have  been  troublous 
times,  especially  in  the  earlier  days,  but  the  higher  learn- 
ing has  steadily  won  its  way  in  open  discussion,  and  the 
university  is  now  far  larger,  higher  in  its  standards,  better 
supported  and  apparently  more  firmly  established  in 
popular  approval  than  ever  before.  What  more  exacting 
test  of  the  power  of  democracy  to  pursue  and  effectuate 

145 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

high  and  rather  abstract  ideals  could  there  well  be  than 
this  ?  One  who  lives  in  the  midst  of  such  facts  cannot  but 
discover  something  rather  doctrinaire  in  the  views  of 
Macaulay  and  Lecky. 

If  it  be  true  that  most  people  judge  men  rather  than 
ideas,  we  may  say  that  democratic  society  is  representative 
not  only  in  politics  but  in  all  its  thought.  Everywhere  a 
few  are  allowed  to  think  and  act  for  the  rest,  and  the  essence 
of  democratic  method  is  not  in  the  direct  choice  of  the  peo- 
ple in  many  matters,  but  in  their  retaining  a  conscious 
power  to  change  their  representatives,  or  to  exercise  direct 
choice,  when  they  wish  to  do  so.  All  tolerable  government 
is  representative,  but  democracy  is  voluntarily  so,  and 
differs  from  oligarchy  in  preserving  the  definite  respon- 
sibility of  the  few  to  the  many.  It  may  even  happen,  as 
in  England,  that  a  hereditary  ruling  class  retains  much  of 
its  power  by  the  consent  of  a  democratized  electorate,  or, 
as  in  France,  that  a  conception  of  the  state,  generated 
under  absolute  monarchy,  is  cherished  under  the  rule  of 
the  people. 

As  for  popular  suffrage,  it  is  a  crude  but  practical  device 
for  ascertaining  the  preponderant  bent  of  opinion  on  a 
definite  issue.  It  is  in  a  sense  superficial,  mechanical,  al- 
most absurd,  when  we  consider  the  difference  in  real 
significance  among  the  units;  but  it  is  simple,  educative, 
and  has  that  palpable  sort  of  justice  that  allays  contention. 
No  doubt  spiritual  weight  is  the  great  thing,  but  as  there  is 
no  accepted  way  to  measure  this,  we  count  one  man  one 
vote,  and  trust  that  spiritual  differences  will  be  expressed 
through  persuasion. 

146 


WHAT  THE  MASSES  CONTRIBUTE 

There  is,  then,  no  essential  conflict  between  democracy 
and  speciaHzation  in  any  sphere.  It  is  true  that  as  the 
vital  unity  of  a  group  becomes  more  conscious  each 
member  tends  to  feel  a  claim  on  everything  the  group  does. 
Thus  the  citizen  not  only  wishes  the  government — of  the 
village,  the  state  or  the  nation — to  be  an  expression  of 
himself;  but  he  wishes  the  same  regarding  the  schools, 
manufactures,  trade,  religion  and  the  advance  of  knowl- 
edge. He  desires  all  these  things  to  go  on  in  the  best  way 
possible,  so  as  to  express  to  the  fullest  that  human  nature 
that  is  in  himself.  And  as  a  guaranty  of  this  he  demands 
that  they  shall  be  conducted  on  an  open  principle,  which 
shall  give  control  of  them  to  the  fittest  individuals.  Kating 
all  privilege  not  based  on  function,  he  desires  power  to 
suppress  such  privilege  when  it  becomes  flagrant.  And 
to  make  everything  amenable,  directly  or  indirectly,  to 
popular  suffrage,  seems  to  him  a  practical  step  in  this  direc- 
tion. 

Something  like  this  is  in  the  mind  of  the  plain  man  of  our 
time;  but  he  is  quite  aware  of  his  incompetence  to  carry 
on  these  varied  activities  directly,  either  in  government 
or  elsewhere,  and  common-sense  teaches  him  to  seek  his 
end  by  a  shrewd  choice  of  representatives,  and  by  develop- 
ing a  system  of  open  and  just  competition  for  all  functions. 
The  picture  of  the  democratic  citizen  as  one  who  thinks 
he  can  do  anything  as  well  as  anybody  is,  of  course,  a 
caricature,  and  in  the  United  States,  at  least,  there  is  a 
great  and  increasing  respect  for  special  capacity,  and  a 
tendency  to  trust  it  as  far  as  it  deserves.  If  people  are 
sometimes  sceptical  of  the  specialist — in  political  economy 
let  us  say — and  inclined  to  prefer  their  own  common-sense, 

147 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

it  is  perhaps  because  they  have  had  unfortunate  experience 
with  the  former.  On  the  whole,  our  time  is  one  of  the 
"rise  of  the  expert,"  when,  on  account  of  the  rapid  elabo- 
ration of  nearly  all  activities,  there  is  an  ever  greater  de- 
mand for  trained  capacity.  Far  from  being  undemo- 
cratic, this  is  a  phase  of  that  effective  organization  of  the 
public  intelligence  which  real  democracy  calls  for.  In 
short,  as  already  suggested,  to  be  democratic,  or  even  to  be 
ignorant,  is  not  necessarily  to  be  a  fool. 

So  in  answer  to  the  question.  Just  what  do  the  undis- 
tinguished masses  of  the  people  contribute  to  the  general 
thought?  we  may  say.  They  contribute.sentiment.  and  .com- 
mon-sense, which  gives  momentum  and  general  direction  to 
progress,  and,  as  regards  particulars,  finds  its  way  by  a 
shrewd .  choice  of  leaders.  It  is  into  the  obscure  and  in- 
articulate sense  of  the  multitude  that  the  man  of  genius 
looks  in  order  to  find  those  vital  tendencies  whose  utter- 
ance is  his  originality.  As  men  in  business  get  rich  by 
divining  and  supplying  a  potential  want,  so  it  is  a  great 
part  of  all  leadership  to  perceive  and  express  what  the 
people  have  already  felt. 


148 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DEMOCRACY  AND   CROWD  EXCITEMENT 

The  Crowd-Theory  of  Modern  Life — The  Psychology  op 
Crowds — Modern  Conditions  Favor  Psychological  Con- 
tagion— Democracy  a  Training  in  Self-Control — The 
Crowd  not  Always  in  the  Wrong — Conclusion;  the  Case 
of  France. 

Certain  writers,  impressed  with  the  rise  of  vast  de- 
mocracies within  which  space  is  almost  ehminated  by 
ease  of  communication,  hold  that  we  are  falling  under  the 
rule  of  Crowds,  that  is  to  say,  of  bodies  of  men  subject 
by  their  proximity  to  waves  of  impulsive  sentiment  and 
action,  quite  like  multitudes  in  physical  contiguity.  A 
crowd  is  well  known  to  be  emotional,  irrational  and  sup- 
pressive of  individuality:  democracy,  being  the  rule  of 
the  crowd,  will  show  the  same  traits. 

The  psychology  of  crowds  has  been  treated  at  length 
by  Sighele,*  Le  Bonf  and  other  authors  who,  having 
made  a  specialty  of  the  man  in  the  throng,  are  perhaps 

*  Scipio  Sighele,  La  folia  delinquente.  French  translation  La 
foule  criminelle. 

t  Gustave  Le  Bon,  Psychologie  des  foules.  English  translation 
The  Crowd. 

The  whole  subject,  including  the  question  of  "prophylactics" 
against  the  mob-mind,  is  well  discussed  in  Professor  E.  A.  Rosfl's 
Social  Psychology 

149 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

somewhat  inclined  to  exaggerate  the  degree  in  which  he 
departs  from  ordinary  personaHty.  The  crowd  mind  is 
not,  as  is  sometimes  said,  a  quite  different  thing  from  that 
of  the  individual  (unless  by  individual  is  meant  the  higher 
self),  but  is  merely  a  collective  mind  of  a  low  order  which 
stimulates  and  unifies  the  cruder  impulses  of  its  members. 
The  men  are  there  but  they  ''descend  to  meet."  The 
loss  of  rational  control  and  liability  to  be  stampeded 
which  are  its  main  traits  are  no  greater  than  attend  almost 
any  state  of  excitement — the  anger,  fear,  love  and  the  like, 
of  the  man  not  in  the  crowd. 

And  the  intimidating  effect  of  a  throng  on  the  individual 
— the  stage-fright,  let  us  say,  of  an  inexperienced  speaker 
— is  nothing  unique,  but  closely  resembles  that  which  we 
have  all  felt  on  first  approaching  an  imposing  person; 
seeming  to  spring  from  that  vague  dread  of  unknown 
power  which  pervades  all  conscious  life.  And  like  the 
latter,  it  readily  wears  off,  so  that  the  practised  orator  is 
never  more  self-possessed  than  with  the  crowd  before  him. 

The  peculiarity  of  the  crowd-mind  is  mainly  in  the 
readiness  with  which  any  communicable  feeling  is  spread 
and  augmented.  Just  as  a  heap  of  firebrands  will  blaze 
when  one  or  two  alone  will  chill  and  go  out,  so  the  units 
of  a  crowd  "inflame  each  other  by  mutual  sympathy  and 
mutual  consciousness  of  it."*  This  is  much  facilitated 
by  the  circumstance  that  habitual  activities  are  usually  in 
abeyance,  the  man  in  a  throng  being  like  one  fallen  over- 
board in  that  he  is  removed  from  his  ordinary  surround- 
ings and  plunged  into  a  strange  and  alarming  element. 
At  once  excited  and  intimidated,  he  readily  takes  on  a  sug- 
*  Whately  in  his  note  to  Bacon's  essay  on  Discourse. 
150 


DEMOCRACY  AND  CROWD  EXCITEMENT 

gested   emotion — as   of  panic,   anger   or  self-devotion — 
and  proceeds  to  reckless  action. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  modern  conditions  enable  such 
contagion  to  work  upon  a  larger  scale  than  ever  before, 
so  that  a  wave  of  feeling  now  passes  through  the  people, 
by  the  aid  of  the  newspaper,  very  much  as  if  they  were 
physically  a  crowd — like  the  wave  of  resentment,  for  in- 
stance, that  swept  over  America  when  the  battle-ship 
Maine  was  destroyed  in  Havana  harbor.  The  popular 
excitement  over  athletic  contests  is  a  familiar  example. 
During  the  foot-ball  season  the  emotion  of  the  crowd 
actually  present  at  a  famous  game  is  diffused  throughout 
the  country  by  prompt  and  ingenious  devices  that  depict 
the  progress  of  the  play;  and,  indeed,  it  is  just  to  get  into 
this  excitement,  and  out  of  themselves  and  the  humdrum 
of  routine,  that  thousands  of  people,  most  of  whom  know 
next  to  nothing  of  the  game,  read  the  newspapers  and 
stand  about  the  bulletin  boards.  And  when  a  war  breaks 
out,  the  people  read  the  papers  in  quite  the  same  spirit 
that  the  Roman  populace  went  to  the  arena,  not  so  much 
from  any  depraved  taste  for  blood,  as  to  be  in  the  thrill. 
Even  the  so-called  ''individualism"  of  our  time,  and  the 
unresting  pursuit  of  ''  business,"  are  in  great  part  due  to  a 
contagion  of  the  crowd.  People  become  excited  by  the 
game  and  want  to  be  in  it,  whether  they  have  any  definite 
object  or  not;  and  once  in  they  think  they  must  keep  up, 
the  pace  or  go  under.  ' 

Is  democracy,  then,  the  rule  of  the  crowd,  and  is  there  a 
tendency  in  modern  times  toward  the  subjection  of  so- 
ciety to  an  irrational  and  degenerate  phase  of  the  mind  ? 

151 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

This  question,  like  others  relating  to  the  trenci  of  modern 
life,  looks  differently  according  to  the  points  of  view  from 
which  it  is  approached.  In  general  we  may  say  that  the 
very  changes  which  are  drawing  modern  populations 
together  into  denser  wholes  bring  also  a  discipline .  in 
organization  and  self-control  which  should  remove  them 
further  and  further  from  the  mob  state. 

It  is  agreed  by  writers  on  the  crowd  that  men  are  little 
likely  to  be  stampeded  in  matters  regarding  which  they 
have  a  trained  habit  of  thought — as  a  fireman,  for  instance, 
will  be  apt  to  keep  his  head  when  the  fire-alarm  sounds. 
And  it  is  just  the  abser  }e  of  this  that  is  the  mark  of  a  crowd, 
which  is  not  made  by  mere  numbers  and  contiguity,  but 
by  group  excitability  arising  from  lack  of  stable  organiza- 
tion. A  veteran  army  is  not  a  crowd,  however  numerous 
and  concentrated;  and  no  more  perhaps  is  a  veteran 
democracy,  though  it  number  twenty  million  voters. 

A  healthy  democracy  is  indeed  a  training  in  judgment 
and  self-control  as  applied  to  political  action;  and  just 
as  a  fireman  is  at  home  on  trembling  ladders  and  amidst 
choking  fumes,  so  the  free  citizen  learns  to  keep  his  head 
amid  the  contending  passions  and  opinions  of  a  *' fierce 
democratic."  Having  passed  safely  through  many  dis- 
turbances, he  has  acquired  a  confidence  in  cool  judgment 
and  in  the  underlying  stability  of  things  impossible  to 
men  who,  living  under  a  stricter  control,  have  had  no  such 
education.  He  knows  well  how  to  discount  superficial 
sentiment  and  ''the  spawn  of  the  press  on  the  gossip  of 
the  hour."  It  is,  then,  the  nature  of  ordered  freedom  to 
train  veterans  of  politics,  secure  against  the  wild  impulses 
of  a  rabble — such  as  made  havoc  in  Paris  at  the  close  of 

152 


DEMOCRACY  AND  CROWD  EXCITEMENT 

the  Franco-Prussian  war — and  in  modern  times,  when 
power  cannot  be  kept  away  from  the  people,  such  a  train- 
ing is  the  main  guaranty  of  social  stability.  Is  it  not  ap- 
parent to  judicious  observers  that  our  tough-fibred,  loose- 
jointed  society  takes  agitation  more  safely  than  the  more 
rigid  structures  of  Europe? 

Nor  is  it  merely  in  politics  that  this  is  true,  for  it  is  the 
whole  tendency  of  a  free  system  to  train  men  to  stand  on 
their  own  feet  and  resist  the  rush.  In  a  fixed  order,  with 
little  opening  for  initiative  or  differentiated  development, 
they  scarcely  realize  themselves  as  distinct  and  self- 
directing  individuals,  and  from  them  one  may  expect  the 
traits  of  Le  Bon's  Joules;  hardly  from  the  shrewd  farmers 
and  mechanics  of  American  democracy. 

It  looks  at  first  sight  as  if,  because  of  their  dense  hu- 
manity, the  great  cities  in  which  the  majority  of  the  popu- 
lation are  apparently  to  live  must  tend  to  a  mob  like  state 
of  mind;  but  except  In  so  far  as  cities  attract  the  worse 
elements  of  the  people  this  is  probably  not  the  case. 
Mob  phenomena  generally  come  from  crowd  excitement 
ensuing  upon  a  sluggish  habit  of  life  and  serving  as  an 
outlet  to  the  passions  which  such  a  life  stores  up.  We  find 
the  mob  and  the  mob-like  religious  revival  in  the  back  coun- 
ties rather  than  among  the  cheerful  and  animated  people 
that  throng  the  open  places  of  New  York  or  Chicago. 

Moreover,  it  is  hardly  true  that  "the  multitude  is  al- 
ways in  the  wrong";*  and  conclusions  may  be  no  less 

*  Attributed  to  the  Earl  of  Roscommon.  See  Bartlett's  Familiar 
Quotations. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne  characteristically  describes  the  multitude 
as   "that  numerous  piece  of  monstrosity,  which,  taken  asunder, 

153 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

sound  and  vital  for  being  reached  under  a  certain  exalta- 
tion of  popular  enthusiasm.  The  individual  engaged  in 
private  affairs  and  without  the  thrill  of  the  common  life 
is  not  more  apt  to  be  at  the  height  of  his  mental  being  than 
the  man  in  the  crowd.  A  mingling  of  these  influences  seems 
to  produce  the  best  results,  and  the  highest  rationality, 
while  it  involves  much  plodding  thought  in  its  prepara- 
tion, is  likely  to  come  to  definite  consciousness  and  ex- 
pression in  moments  of  some  excitement.  As  it  is  the 
common  experience  of  artists,  poets  and  saints  that  their 
best  achievements  are  the  outcome  of  long  brooding 
culminating  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  so  the  clearest  notes  of 
democracy  may  be  struck  in  times  of  exaltation  like  that 
which,  in  the  Northern  United  States,  followed  the  attack 
on  Fort  Sumter.  The  impulsiveness  which  marks  popu- 
lar feeling  may  express  some  brutal  or  trivial  phase  of 
human  nature,  or  some  profound  moral  intuition,  the  only 
definite  test  being  the  persistence  of  the  sentiment  which 
thus  comes  to  light;  and  if  it  proves  to  have  the  lasting 
warrant  of  the  general  conscience  it  may  be  one  of  those 
voices  of  the  people  in  which  posterity  will  discover  the 
voice  of  God. 

The  view  that  the  crowd  is  irrational  and  degenerate 
is  characteristic  of  an  intricate  society  where  reading  has 
largely  taken  the  place  of  assembly  as  a  stimulus  to  thought. 
In  primitive  times  the  social  excitement  of  religious  and 
other  festivals  represented  the  higher  life;  as  it  still  does 

seem  men,  and  the  reasonable  creatures  of  God,  but  confused  to- 
gether, make  but  one  great  beast,  and  a  monstrosity  more  prodigious 
than  Hydra."  Rehgio  Medici,  part  ii,  sec.  1.  This  is  the  very  man 
that  urged  the  burning  of  witches  after  the  multitude  was  ready  to 
give  it  up. 

154 


DEMOCRACY  AND  CROWD  EXCITEMENT 

in  backwoods  communities,  and  to  sluggish  temperaments 
everywhere.  Even  in  the  towns  our  higher  sentiments 
are  largely  formed  in  social  meetings  of  one  sort  or  an- 
other, accompanied  by  music,  acting,  dancing  or  speech- 
making,  which  draw  one  out  of  the  more  solitary  currents 
of  his  thought  and  bring  him  into  livelier  unity  with  his 
fellows. 

There  is  really  no  solid  basis  in  fact  or  theory  for  the 
view  that  established  democracy  is  the  rule  of  an  irrespon- 
sible crowd.  If  not  true  of  America,  it  fails  as  a  general 
principle;  and  no  authoritative  observer  has  found  it  to 
be  the  case  here.  Those  who  hold  the  crowd-theory  seem 
to  be  chiefly  writers,  whether  French  or  not,  who  generalize 
from  the  history  of  France.  Without  attempting  any  dis- 
cussion of  this,  I  may  suggest  one  or  two  points  that  we 
are  perhaps  apt  to  overlook.  It  is,  for  one  thing,  by  no 
means  clear  that  French  democracy  has  shown  itself  to 
lack  the  power  of  self-control  and  deliberate  progress. 
Its  difficulties — the  presence  of  ancient  class  divisions,  of 
inevitable  militarism,  and  the  like — have  been  immeasu- 
rably greater  than  ours,  and  its  spirit  one  with  which  we 
do  not  readily  sympathize.  France,  I  suppose,  is  little 
understood  in  England  or  the  United  States,  and  we  prob- 
ably get  our  views  too  much  from  a  school  of  French 
writers  whose  zeal  to  correct  her  faults  may  tend  to  ex- 
aggerate them.  The  more  notorious  excesses  of  the  French 
or  Parisian  populace — such  as  are  real  and  not  a  fiction 
of  hostile  critics — seem  to  have  sprung  from  that  exercise  of 
power  without  training  inevitable  in  a  country  where 
democracy  had  to  come  by  revolution,  And,  again,  a  certatin 

155 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

tendency  to  act  in  masses,  and  lack  of  vigorous  local  and 
private  initiative,  which  appears  to  characterize  France, 
is  much  older  than  the  Revolution,  and  seems  due  partly 
to  race  traits  and  partly  to  such  historical  conditions  as 
the  centralized  structure  inherited  from  absolute  monarchy. 


im 


CHAPTER  XV 

DEMOCRACY  AND  DISTINCTION 

IHE  Problem — Democracy  Should  be  Distinguished  from 
Transition — The  Dead-Level  Theory  of  Democracy — 
Confusion  and  Its  Effects — "Individualism"  May  not 
be  Favorable  to  Distinguished  Individuality — Con- 
temporary Uniformity — Relative  Advantages  of  America 
AND  Europe — Haste,  Superficiality,  Strain — Spiritual 
Economy  of  a  Settled  Order — Commercialism — Zeal  for 
Diffusion — Conclusion. 

What  shall  we  say  of  the  democratic  trend  of  the  mod- 
ern world  as  it  affects  the  finer  sort  of  intellectual  achieve- 
ment? While  the  conscious  sway  of  the  masses  seems 
not  uncongenial  to  the  more  popular  and  obvious  kinds 
of  eminence,  as  of  statesmen,  inventors,  soldiers,  finan- 
ciers and  the  like,  there  are  many  who  believe  it  to  be 
hostile  to  distinction  in  literature,  art  or  science.  Is 
there  hope  for  this  also,  or  must  we  be  content  to  offset 
the  dearth  of  greatness  by  the  abundance  of  mediocrity  ? 

This,  I  take  it,  is  a  matter  for  a  ^priori  psychological 
reasoning  rather  than  for  close  induction  from  fact.  The 
present  democratic  movement  is  so  different  from  any- 
thing in  the  past  that  historical  comparison  of  any  large 
sort  is  nearly  or  quite  worthless.  And,  moreover,  it  is 
so  bound  up  with  other  conditions  which  are  not  essential 
to  it  and  may  well  prove  transient,  that  even  contempo- 
rary fact  gives  us  very  little  secure  guidance.  All  that  is 
really  practicable  is  a  survey  of  the  broad  principles  at 
work  and  a  rough  attempt  to  forecast  how  they  may 

)57 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

work  out.  An  Inquiry  of  this  sort  seems  to  me  to  lead 
to  conclusions  somewhat  as  follows. 

First,  there  is,  I  believe,  no  sound  reason  for  thinking 
that  the  democratic  spirit  or  organization  is  in  its  essential 
nature  hostile  to  distinguished  production.  Indeed,  one 
who  holds  that  the  opposite  is  the  case,  w^hile  he  will  not 
be  able  to  silence  the  pessimist,  will  find  little  in  fact  or 
'theory  to  shake  his  own  faith. 

Second,  although  democracy  itself  is  not  hostile,  so 
far  as  we  can  make  out  its  nature  by  general  reasoning, 
there  is  much  that  is  so  in  the  present  state  of  thought, 
both  in  the  world  at  large  and,  more  particularly,  in  the 
United  States. 

In  this,  as  In  all  discussions  regarding  contemporary 
tendency,  we  need  to  discriminate  between  democracy 
and  transition.  At  present  the  two  go  together  because 
democracy  is  new;  but  there  is  no  reason  in  the  nature  of 
things  why  they  should  remain  together.  As  popular 
rule  becomes  established  it  proves  capable  of  developing 
a  stability,  even  a  rigidity,  of  its  own;  and  it  is  already  ap- 
parent that  the  United  States,  for  instance,  just  because 
democracy  has  had  its  way  there,  is  less  liable  to  sudden 
transitions  than  perhaps  any  other  of  the  great  nations. 

It  Is  true  that  democracy  involves  some  elements  of 
[permanent  unrest.  Thus,  by  demanding  open  oppor- 
tunity and  resisting  hereditary  stratification.  It  will  prob- 
ably maintain  a  competition  of  persons  more  general,  and 
as  regards  personal  status  more  unsettling,  than  anything 
the  world  has  been  used  to  In  the  past.  But  personal 
competition  alone  is  the  cause  of  only  a  small  part  of  the 

158 


DEMOCRACY  AND  DISTINCTION 

stress  and  disorder  of  our  time;  much  more  being  due 
to  general  changes  in  the  social  system,  particularly  in 
industry,  which  we  may  describe  as  transition.  And 
moreover,  competition  itself  is  in  a  specially  disordered 
or  transitional  state  at  present,  and  will  be  less  disquiet- 
ing when  a  more  settled  state  of  society  permits  it  to  be 
carried  on  under  established  rules  of  justice,  and  when  a 
discriminating  education  shall  do  a  large  part  of  its  work. 
In  short,  democracy  is  not  necessarily  confusion,  and  we 
shall  find  reason  to  think  that  it  is  the  latter,  chiefly, 
that  is  opposed  to  distinction. 

The  view  that  popular  rule  is  in  its  nature  unsuited  to 
foster  genius  rests  chiefly  on  the  dead-level  theory.  Equal- 
ity not  distinction  is  said  to  be  the  passion  of  the  masses, 
diffusion  not  concentration.  Everything  moves  on  a 
vast  and  vaster  scale:  the  facility  of  intercourse  is  melt- 
ing the  world  into  one  fluid  whole  in  which  the  single  in- 
dividual is  more  and  more  submerged.  The  era  of  salient 
personalities  is  passing  away,  and  the  principle  of  equality, 
which  ensures  the  elevation  of  men  in  general,  is  fatal  to 
particular  greatness.  *'In  modern  society,"  said  De 
Tocqueville,  the  chief  begetter  of  this  doctrine,  "every- 
thing threatens  to  become  so  much  alike  that  the  peculiar 
characteristics  of  each  individual  will  soon  be  entirely  lost 
in  the  general  aspect  of  the  world."  *  Shall  we  agree  with 
this  or  maintain  with  Plato  that  a  democracy  will  have 
the  greatest  variety  of  human  nature  ?  f 

*  Democracy  in  America,  vol.  ii,  book  iv,  chap.  7.  But  elsewhere 
he  expresses  the  opinion  that  this  levelling  and  confusion  is  only- 
temporary.     See,  for  example,  book  iii,  chap.  21. 

t  Republic,  book  viii. 

159 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

Perhaps  the  most  plausible  basis  for  this  theory  is  the 
levelling  effect  ascribed  by  many  to  the  facilities  for  com- 
munication that  have  grown  up  so  surprisingly  within  the 
past  century.  In  a  former  chapter  I  have  said  much  upon 
this  matter,  holding  that  we  must  distinguish  between  the 
individuality  of  choice  and  that  of  isolation,  and  giving 
reasons  why  the  modern  facility  of  intercourse  should  be 
favorable  to  the  former. 

To  this  we  may  add  that  the  mere  fact  of  popular  rule 
has  no  inevitable  connection,  either  friendly  or  hostile, 
with  variety  and  vigor  of  individuality.  If  France  is 
somewhat  lacking  in  these,  it  is  not  because  she  is  demo- 
cratic, but  because  of  the  race  traits  of  her  people  and  her 
peculiar  antecedents;  if  America  abounds  in  a  certain 
kind  of  individuality,  it  is  chiefly  because  she  inherited 
it  from  England  and  developed  it  in  a  frontier  life.  In 
either  case  democracy,  In  the  sense  of  popular  government, 
is  a  secondary  matter. 

Certainly,  America  is  a  rather  convincing  proof  that 
democracy  does  not  necessarily  suppress  salient  personal- 
ity. So  far  as  individuality  of  spirit  is  concerned,  our  life 
leaves  little  to  be  desired,  and  no  trait  impresses  itself 
more  than  this  upon  observers  from  the  continent  of 
Europe.  ''All  things  grow  clear  in  the  United  States," 
says  Paul  Bourget,  ''when  one  understands  them  as  an 
immense  act  of  faith  in  the  social  beneficence  of  individual 
energy  left  to  itself."*  The  "individualism"  of  our 
social  system  is  a  commonplace  of  contemporary  writers. 
Nowhere  else,  not  even  in  England,  I  suppose,  is  there 
more  respect  for  non-conformity  or  more  disposition  to 
*  Outre-Mer.  English  Translation,  306. 
160 


DEMOCRACY  AND  DISTINCTION 

assert  it.  In  our  intensely  competitive  life  men  learn  to 
value  character  above  similarity,  and  one  who  has  char- 
acter may  hold  what  opinions  he  pleases.  Personality, 
as  Mr.  Brownell  points  out  in  contrasting  the  Americans 
with  the  French,  is  the  one  thing  of  universal  interest 
here:  our  conversation,  our  newspapers,  our  elections  are 
dominated  by  it,  and  our  great  commercial  transactions 
are  largely  a  struggle  for  supremacy  among  rival  leaders.* 
The  augmenting  numbers  of  the  people,  far  from  obscur- 
ing the  salient  individual,  only  make  for  him  a  larger 
theatre  of  success;  and  personal  reputation — whether  for 
wealth,  statesmanship,  literary  achievement,  or  for  mere 
singularity — is  organized  on  a  greater  scale  than  ever  be- 
fore. One  who  is  familiar  with  any  province  of  American 
life,  as  for  example,  that  of  charitable  and  penal  reform, 
is  aware  that  almost  every  advance  is  made  through  the 
embodiment  of  timely  ideas  in  one  or  a  few  energetic  indi- 
viduals who  set  an  example  for  the  country  to  follow. 
Experience  with  numbers,  instead  of  showing  the  insig- 
nificance of  the  individual,  proves  that  if  he  has  faith  and 
a  worthy  aim  there  is  no  limit  to  what  he  may  do;  and 
we  find,  accordingly,  plenty  of  courage  in  starting  new 
projects.  The  country  is  full  of  men  who  find  the  joys 
of  self-assertion,  if  not  always  of  outward  success,  in  the 
bold  pursuit  of  hazardous  enterprises. 

If  there  is  a  deficiency  of  literary  and  artistic  achieve- 
ment in  a  democracy  of  this  kind,  it  is  due  to  some  other 
cause  than  a  general  submergence  of  the  individual  in 
the  mass. 

The  dead-level  theory,  then,  is  suflSciently  discredited 
*  See  the  final  chapter  of  his  French  Traits. 
161 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

as  a  general  law  by  the  undiminished  ascendency  of  salient 
individualities  in  every  province  of  activity.  The  enlarge- 
ment of  social  consciousness  does  not  alter  the  essential 
relation  of  individuality  to  life,  but  simply  gives  it  a 
greater  field  of  success  or  failure.  The  man  of  genius 
may  meet  with  more  competition,  but  if  he  is  truly  great  a 
larger  world  is  his.  To  imagine  that  the  mass  will  sub- 
merge the  individual  is  to  suppose  that  one  aspect  of  so- 
ciety will  stand  still  v/hile  the  other  grows.  It  rests  upon  a 
superficial,  numerical  way  of  thinking,  which  regards 
individuals  as  fixed  units  each  of  which  must  become  less 
conspicuous  the  more  they  are  multiplied.  But  if  the 
man  of  genius  represents  a  spiritual  principle  his  influence 
is  not  fixed  but  grows  with  the  growth  of  life  itself,  and  is 
limited  only  by  the  vitality  of  what  he  stands  for.  Surely 
the  great  men  of  the  past — Plato,  Dante,  Shakespeare 
and  the  rest — are  not  submerged,  nor  in  danger  of  being; 
nor  is  it  apparent  why  their  successors  should  be. 

The  real  cause  of  literary  and  artistic  weakness  (in  so 
far  as  it  exists)  I  take  to  be  chiefly  the  spiritual  disorgan- 
ization incident  to  a  time  of  rather  sudden  transition. 
How  this  condition,  and  others  closely  associated  with  it, 
are  unfavorable  to  great  aesthetic  production,  I  shall  try 
to  point  out  under  the  four  heads,  confusion,  commercial- 
ism, haste  and  zeal  for  diffusion. 

With  reference  to  the  higher  products  of  culture,  not 
only  the  United  States,  but  in  some  degree  contemporary 
civilization  in  general,  is  a  confused,  a  raw,  society,  not 
as  being  democratic  but  as  being  new.  It  is  our  whole 
newspaper  and  factory  epoch  that  is  crude,  and  scarcely 

162 


DEMOCRACY  AND  DISTINCTION 

more  so  In  America  than  in  England  or  Germany;  the 
main  difference  in  favor  of  European  countries  being  that 
the  present  cannot  so  easily  be  separated  from  the  con- 
ditions of  an  earlier  culture.  It  is  a  general  trait  of  the 
time  that  social  types  are  disintegrated,  old  ones  going 
to  pieces  and  new  ones  not  perfected,  leaving  the  indi- 
vidual without  adequate  discipline  either  in  the  old  or  in 
the  new. 

Now  works  of  enduring  greatness  seem  to  depend, 
among  other  things,  on  a  certain  ripeness  of  historical 
conditions.  No  matter  how  gifted  an  individual  may  be, 
he  is  in  no  way  apart  from  his  time,  but  has  to  take  that 
and  make  the  best  of  it  he  can;  the  man  of  genius  is  in 
one  point  of  view  only  a  twig  upon  which  a  mature  ten- 
dency bears  its  perfect  fruit.  In  the  new  epoch  the  vast 
things  in  process  are  as  yet  so  unfinished  that  individual 
gifts  are  scarce  sufficient  to  bring  anything  to  a  classical 
completeness;  so  that  our  life  remains  somewhat  inarticu- 
late, our  literature,  and  still  more  our  plastic  art,  being  in- 
adequate exponents  of  what  is  most  vital  in  the  modern 
spirit. 

The  psychological  effect  of  confusion  is  a  lack  of  mature 
culture  groups,  and  of  what  they  only  can  do  for  intel- 
lectual or  aesthetic  production.  What  this  means  may, 
perhaps,  be  made  clearer  by  a  comparison  drawn  from 
athletic  sports.  We  find  in  our  colleges  that  to  produce 
a  winning  foot-ball  team,  or  distinguished  performance 
in  running  or  jumping,  it  is  essential  first  of  all  to  have 
a  spirit  of  intense  interest  in  these  things,  which  shall 
arouse  the  ambition  of  those  having  natural  gifts,  support 
them  in  their  training  and  reward  their  success      With- 

163 


SOCIAL   ORGANIZATION 

out  this  group  spirit  no  efficient  organization,  no  high 
standard  of  achievement,  can  exist,  and  a  small  institution 
that  has  this  will  easily  surpass  a  large  one  that  lacks  it. 
And  experience  shows  that  it  takes  much  time  to  perfect 
such  a  spirit  and  the  organizations  through  which  it  is 
expressed. 

In  quite  the  same  way  any  ripe  development  of  pro- 
ductive power  in  literary  or  other  art  implies  not  merely 
capable  individuals  but  the  perfection  of  a  social  group, 
whose  traditions  and  spirit  the  individual  absorbs,  and 
which  floats  him  up  to  a  point  whence  he  can  reach  unique 
achievement.  The  unity  of  this  group  or  type  is  spiritual, 
not  necessarily  local  or  temporal,  and  so  may  be  difficult 
to  trace,  but  its  reality  is  as  sure  as  the  principle  that  man 
is  a  social  being  and  cannot  think  sanely  and  steadfastly 
except  in  some  sort  of  sympathy  with  his  fellows.  There 
must  be  others  whom  we  can  conceive  as  sharing,  cor- 
roborating and  enhancing  our  ideals,  and  to  no  one  is 
such  association  more  necessary  than  the  man  of  genius. 

The  group  is  likely .  to  be  more  apparent  or  tangible 
in  some  arts  than  in  others:  it  is  generally  quite  evident 
in  painting,  sculpture,  architecture  and  music,  where  a 
regular  development  by  the  passage  of  inspiration  from 
one  artist  to  another  can  almost  always  be  traced.  In 
literature  the  connections  are  less  obvious,  chiefly  because 
this  art  is  in  its  methods  more  disengaged  from  time  and 
place,  so  that  it  is  easier  to  draw  inspiration  from  distant 
sources.  It  is  also  partly  a  matter  of  temperament,  men 
of  somewhat  solitary  imagination  being  able  to  form 
their  group  out  of  remote  personalities,  and  so  to  be  al- 
most  independent   of   time   and   place.     Thus   Thoreau 

164 


DEMOCRACY  AND  DISTINCTION 

lived  with  the  Greek  and  Hindoo  classics,  with  the  old 
English  poets,  and  with  the  suggestions  of  nature;  but 
even  he  owed  much  to  contemporary  influences,  and  the 
more  he  is  studied  the  less  solitary  he  appears.  Is  not 
this  the  case  also  with  Wordsworth,  with  Dante,  with  all 
men  who  are  supposed  to  have  stood  alone  ? 

The  most  competent  of  all  authorities  on  this  question 
— Goethe — was  a  full  behever  in  the  dependence  of  genius 
on  influences.  '^  People  are  always  talking  about  orig- 
inaUty,"  he  says,  "but  what  do  they  mean?  As  soon  as 
we  are  born  the  world  begins  to  work  upon  us,  and  this 
goes  on  to  the  end.  And  after  all  what  can  we  call  our 
own  except  energy,  strength  and  will?  If  I  could  give 
an  account  of  all  that  I  owe  to  great  predecessors  and  con- 
temporaries, there  would  be  but  a  small  balance  in  my 
favor."*  He  even  held  that  men  of  genius  are  more 
dependent  upon  their  environment  than  others;  for,  being 
thinner-skinned,  they  are  more  suggestible,  more  perturba- 
ble,  and  peculiarly  in  need  of  the  right  sort  of  surroundings 
to  keep  their  delicate  machinery  in  fruitful  action. 

No  doubt  such  questions  afford  ground  for  infinite 
debate,  but  the  underlying  principle  that  the  thought  of 
every  man  is  one  with  that  of  a  group,  visible  or  invisible, 
is  sure,  I  think,  to  prove  sound;  and  if  so  it  is  indispensa- 
ble that  a  great  capacity  should  find  access  to  a  group 
whose  ideals  and  standards  are  of  a  sort  to  make  the  most 
of  it. 

Another  reason  why  the  rawness  of  the  modern  world 
is  unfavorable  to  great  production  is  that  the  ideals  them- 
selves which  a  great  art  should  express  share  in  the  gen- 
*  Conversation  with  Eckermann,  May  12,  1825 
165 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

era!  incompleteness  of  things  and  do  not  present  themselves 
to  the  mind  clearly  defined  and  incarnate  in  vivid  symbols. 
Perhaps  a  certain  fragmentariness  and  pettiness  in  con- 
temporary art  and  literature  is  due  more  to  this  cause 
than  to  any  other — to  the  fact  that  the  aspirations  of  the 
time,  large  enough,  certainly,  are  too  much  obscured  in 
smoke  to  be  clearly  and  steadily  regarded.  We  may  be- 
lieve, for  example,  in  democracy,  but  it  can  hardly  be 
said  that  we  see  democracy,  as  the  middle  ages,  in  their 
art,  saw  the  Christian  religion. 

From  this  point  of  view  of  groups  and  organization 
it  is  easy  to  understand  why  the  '^ individualism"  of  our 
epoch  does  not  necessarily  produce  great  individuals. 
Individuality  may  easily  be  aggressive  and  yet  futile,  be- 
cause not  based  on  the  training  afforded  by  well-organ- 
ized types — like  the  fruitless  valor  of  an  isolated  soldier. 
Mr.  Brownell  points  out  that  the  prevalence  of  this  sort 
of  individuality  in  our  art  and  life  is  a  point  of  contrast 
between  us  and  the  French.  Paris,  compared  with  New 
York,  has  the  "organic  quality  which  results  from  variety 
of  types,"  as  distinguished  from  variety  of  individuals. 
"We  do  far  better  in  the  production  of  striking  artistic 
personalities  than  we  do  in  the  general  medium  of  taste 
and  culture.  We  figure  well,  invariably,  at  the  Salon.  .  .  . 
Comparatively  speaking,  of  course,  we  have  no  milieu.*'* 

The  same  conditions  underlie  that  comparative  uni- 
formity of  American  life  which  wearies  the  visitor  and 
implants  in  the  native  such  a  passion  for  Europe.     When 
*  French  Traits,  385,  387,  393. 
166 


DEMOCRACY   AND  DISTINCTION 

a  populous  society  springs  up  rapidly  from  a  few  trans- 
planted seeds,  its  structure,  however  vast,  is  necessarily 
somewhat  simple  and  monotonous.  A  thousand  towns, 
ten  thousand  churches,  a  million  houses,  are  built  on  the 
same  models,  and  the  people  and  the  social  institutions 
do  not  altogether  escape  a  similar  poverty  of  types.  No 
doubt  this  is  sometimes  exaggerated,  and  America  does 
present  many  picturesque  variations,  but  only  a  reck- 
less enthusiasm  will  equal  them  with  those  of  Europe. 
How  unspeakably  inferior  in  exterior  aspect  and  in  many 
inner  conditions  of  culture  must  any  recent  civilization 
be  to  that,  let  us  say,  of  Italy,  whose  accumulated  riches 
represent  the  deposit  of  several  thousand  years. 

Such  deposits,  however,  belong  to  the  past;  and  as  re- 
gards contemporary  accretions  the  sameness  of  Lon- 
don or  Rome  is  hardly  less  than  that  of  Chicago.  It  is 
a  matter  of  the  epoch,  more  conspicuous  here  chiefly  be- 
cause it  has  had  fuller  sweep.  A  heavy  fall  of  crude 
commercialism  is  rapidly  obscuring  the  contours  of  history. 

In  comparison  with  Europe  America  has  the  advantages 
that  come  from  being  more  completely  in  the  newer  cur- 
rent of  things.  It  is  nearer,  perhaps,  to  the  spirit  of  the 
coming  order,  and  so  perhaps  more  likely,  in  due  time,  to 
give  it  adequate  utterance  in  art.  Another  benefit  of  be- 
ing new  is  the  attitude  of  confidence  that  it  fosters.  If 
America  could  hardly  have  sustained  the  assured  mastery 
of  Tennyson,  neither,  perhaps,  could  England  an  opti- 
mism like  that  of  Emerson.  In  contrast  to  the  latter, 
Carlyle,  Ruskin  and  Tolstoi — prophets  of  an  older  world 
— are  shadowed  by  a  feeling  of  the  ascendency  and  inertia 

167 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

of  ancient  and  somewhat  decadent  institutions.  They 
are  afraid  of  them,  and  so  are  apt  to  be  rather  shrill  in 
protest.  An  American,  accustomed  to  see  hu:r.an  nature 
have  pretty  much  its  own  way,  has  seldom  any  serious 
mistrust  of  the  outcome.  Nearly  all  of  oui  writers — as 
Emerson,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Whittier,  Holmes,  Thoreau, 
Whitman,  even  Hawthorne — have  been  of  a  cheerful  and 
wholesome  personality.* 

On  the  other  hand,  an  old  civilization  has  from  its 
mere  antiquity  a  richness  and  complexity  of  spiritual  life 
that  cannot  be  transplanted  to  a  new  world.  The  immi- 
grants bring  with  them  the  traditions  of  which  they  feel 
in  immediate  need,  such  as  those  necessary  to  found  the 
state,  the  church  and  the  family;  but  even  these  lose 
something  of  their  original  flavor,  while  much  of  what  is 
subtler  and  less  evidently  useful  is  left  behind.  We  must 
remember,  too,  that  the  culture  of  the  Old  World  is  chiefly 
a  class  culture,  and  that  the  immigrants  have  mostly  come 
from  a  class  that  had  no  great  part  in  it. 

With  this  goes  loss  of  the  visible  monuments  of  culture 
inherited  from  the  past — architecture,  painting,  sculpture, 
ancient  universities  and  the  hke.  Burne- Jones,  the  Eng- 
lish painter,  speaking  of  the  commercial  city  in  which  he 
spent  his  youth,  says:  ...  ''if  there  had  been  one  cast 
from  ancient  Greek  sculpture,  or  one  faithful  copy  of  a 
great  Italian  picture,  to  be  seen  in  Birmingham  when  I 
was  a  boy,  I  should  have  begun  to  paint  ten  years  before 
I  did  .  .  .  even  the  silent  presence  of  great  works  in 
your  town  will  produce  an  impression  on  those  who  see 
them,  and  the  next  generation  will,  without  knowing 
*  Poe  is  the  only  notable  exception  that  occurs  to  me. 
168 


DEMOCRACY  AND  DISTINCTION 

how  or  why,  find  it  easier  to  learn  than  this  one  does 
whose  surroundings  are  so  unlovely."* 

Nor  is  American  life  favorable  to  the  rapid  crystalliza- 
tion of  a  new  artistic  culture;  it  is  too  transient  and  rest- 
less; transatlantic  migration  is  followed  by  internal  move- 
ments from  east  to  west  and  from  city  to  country;  while 
on  top  of  these  we  have  a  continuous  subversion  of  in- 
dustrial relations. f 

Another  element  of  special  confusion  in  our  life  is  the 
headlong  mixture  of  races,  temperaments  and  traditions 
that  comes  from  the  new  immigration,  from  the  irruption 
by  millions  of  peoples  from  the  south  and  east  of  the  Old 
World.  If  they  v/ere  wholly  inferior,  as  we  sometimes 
imagine,  it  would  perhaps  not  matter  so  much;  but  the 
truth  is  that  they  contest  every  intellectual  function  with 
the  older  stock,  and,  in  the  universities  for  instance,  are 
shortly  found  teaching  our  children  their  own  history  and 
literature.  They  assimilate,  but  always  with  a  difference, 
and  in  the  northern  United  States,  formerly  dominated  by 
New  England  influences,  a  revolution  from  this  cause  is 
well  under  way.  It  is  as  if  a  kettle  of  broth  were  cooking 
quietly  on  the  fire,  when  some  one  should  come  in  and  add 
suddenly  a  great  pailful  of  raw  meats,  vegetables  and 
spices — a  rich  combination,  possibly,  but  likely  to  re- 
quire much  boiling.  That  fine  English  sentiment  that 
came  down  to  us  through  the  colonists  more  purely,  per- 
haps, than  to  the  English  in  the  old  country,  is  passing 

*Memorials  of  Edward  Burne-Jones,  ii,  100,  101. 

t  Our  most  notable  group  of  writers — flourishing  at  Concord  and 
Boston  about  1850 — is,  of  course,  connected  with  the  maturing,  in 
partial  isolation,  of  a  local  type  of  culture,  now  disintegrated  and 
dispersed  on  the  wider  currents  of  the  time. 

169 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

away — as  a  distinct  current,  that  is — lost  in  a  flood  of 
cosmopolitan  life.  Before  us,  no  doubt,  is  a  larger  hu- 
manity, but  behind  is  a  cherished  spirit  that  can  hardly 
live  again;  and,  like  the  boy  who  leaves  home,  we  must 
turn  our  thoughts  from  an  irrevocable  past  and  go  hope- 
fully on  to  we  know  not  what. 

In  short,  our  world  lacks  maturity  of  culture  organiza- 
tion. AVhat  we  sometimes  call — truly  enough  as  regards 
its  economic  life — our  complex  civilization,  is  simple  to 
the  point  of  poverty  in  spiritual  structure.  We  have  cast 
off  much  rubbish  and  decay  and  are  preparing,  we  may 
reasonably  hope,  to  produce  an  art  and  literature  worthy 
of  our  vigor  and  aspiration,  but  in  the  past,  certainly,  we 
have  hardly  done  so. 

Haste  and  the  superficiality  and  strain  which  attend 
upon  it  are  widely  and  insidiously  destructive  of  good  work 
in  our  day.  No  other  condition  of  mind  or  of  society — 
not  ignorance,  poverty,  oppression  or  hate — kills  art  as 
haste  does.  Almost  any  phase  of  life  may  be  ennobled  if 
there  is  only  calm  enough  in  which  the  brooding  mind 
may  do  its  perfect  work  upon  it;  but  out  of  hurry  nothing 
noble  ever  did  or  can  emerge.  In  art  human  nature 
should  come  to  a  total,  adequate  expression;  a  spiritual 
tendency  should  be  perfected  and  recorded  in  calmness 
and  joy.  But  ours  is,  on  the  whole,  a  time  of  stress,  of 
the  habit  of  incomplete  work;  its  products  are  unlovely 
and  unrestful  and  such  as  the  future  will  have  no  joy  in. 
The  pace  is  suited  only  to  turn  out  mediocre  goods  on  a 
vast  scale. 

It  is,  to  put  the  matter  otherwise,  a  loud  time.  The 
170 


DEMOCRACY  AND  DISTINCTION 

newspapers,  the  advertising,  the  general  insistence  of 
suggestion,  have  an  effect  of  din,  so  that  one  feels  that  he 
must  raise  his  voice  to  be  heard,  and  the  whispers  of  the 
gods  are  hard  to  catch.  Men  whose  voices  are  naturally 
low  and  fine  easily  lose  this  trait  in  the  world  and  begin 
to  shout  like  the  rest.  That  is  to  say,  they  exaggerate 
and  repeat  and  advertise  and  caricature,  saying  too  much 
in  the  hope  that  a  little  may  be  heard.  Of  course,  in  the 
long  run  this  is  a  fatal  delusion;  nothing  will  really  be 
listened  to  except  that  whose  quiet  truth  makes  it  worth 
hearing;  but  it  is  one  so  rooted  in  the  general  state 
of  things  that  few  escape  it.  Even  those  who  preserve 
the  lower  tone  do  so  with  an  effort  which  is  in  itself 
disquieting. 

A  strenuous  state  of  mind  is  always  partial  and  special, 
sacrificing  scope  to  intensity  and  more  fitted  for  execution 
than  insight.  It  is  useful  at  times,  but  if  habitual  cuts 
us  off  from  that  sea  of  subconscious  spirit  from  which  all 
original  power  flows.  "The  world  of  art,"  says  Paul 
Bourget,  speaking  of  America,  "requires  less  self-con- 
sciousness— an  impulse  of  life  which  forgets  itself,  the 
alternations  of  dreamy  idleness  with  fervid  execution."* 
So  Henry  Jamesf  remarks  that  we  have  practically  lost 
the  faculty  of  attention,  meaning,  I  suppose,  that  un- 
strenuous,  brooding  sort  of  attention  required  to  produce 
or  appreciate  works  of  art — and  as  regards  the  prevalent 
type  of  business  or  professional  mind  this  seems  quite  true. 

It  comes  mainly  from  having  too  many  things  to  think 
of,  from  the  urgency  and  distraction  of  an  epoch  and  a 

*  Outre-Mer,  25. 

t  In  his  essay  on  Balzac. 

171 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

country  in  which  the  traditional  structures  that  support 
the  mind  and  save  its  energy  have  largely  gone  to  pieces. 
The  endeavor  to  supply  by  will  functions  that  in  other 
conditions  would  be  automatic  creates  a  rush  which  imi- 
tation renders  epidemic,  and  from  which  it  is  not  easy  to 
escape  in  order  to  mature  one's  powers  in  fruitful  quiet. 

There  is  an  immense  spiritual  economy  in  any  settled 
state  of  society,  sufficient,  so  far  as  production  is  concerned, 
to  offset  much  that  is  stagnant  or  oppressive;  the  will  is 
saved  and  concentrated;  while  freedom,  as  De  Tocque- 
ville  noted,  sometimes  produces  "a  small,  distressing 
motion,  a  sort  of  incessant  jostling  of  men,  which  annoys 
and  disturbs  the  mind  without  exciting  or  elevating  it."* 
The  modern  artist  has  too  much  choice.  If  he  attempts 
to  deal  largely  with  life,  his  will  is  overworked  at  the  ex- 
pense of  aesthetic  synthesis.  Freedom  and  opportunity 
are  without  limit,  all  cultures  within  his  reach  and  splendid 
service  awaiting  performance.  But  the  task  of  creating 
a  glad  whole  seems  beyond  any  ordinary  measure  of  talent. 
The  result  in  most  cases — as  has  been  said  of  architecture 
— is  ''confusion  of  types,  illiterate  combinations,  an  evi- 
dent breathlessness  of  effort  and  striving  for  effect,  with 
the  inevitable  loss  of  repose,  dignity  and  style.^f  A 
mediaeval  cathedral  or  a  Greek  temple  was  the  culmina- 
tion of  a  long  social  growth,  a  gradual,  deliberate,  corpo- 
rate achievement,  to  which  the  individual  talent  added 
only  the  finishing  touch.     The  modern  architect  has,  no 

*  Democracy  in  America,  vol.  ii,  book  i,  chap.  10. 

t  Henry  Van  Brunt,  Greek  Lines,  225.  Some  of  these  phrases, 
such  as  "iUiterate  combinations,"  could  never  apply  to  the  v/ork  of 
good  architects. 

172 


DEMOCRACY  AND  DISTINCTION 

doubt,  as  much  personal  ability,  but  the  demands  upon 
it  are  excessive;  it  would  seem  that  only  a  transcendent 
synthetic  genius  of  the  calibre  of  Dante  could  deal  ade- 
quately with  our  scattered  conditions. 

The  cause  of  strain  is  radical  and  somewhat  feverish 
change,  not  democracy  as  such.  A  large  part  of  the 
people,  particularly  the  farming  class,  are  little  affected 
by  it,  and  there  are  indications  that  in  America,  where  it 
has  been  greater  than  elsewhere,  the  worst  is  now  over. 

By  commercialism,  in  this  connection,  we  may  under- 
stand a  preoccupation  of  the  ability  of  the  people  with  ma- 
terial production  and  with  the  trade  and  finance  based 
upon  it.  This  again  is  in  part  a  trait  of  the  period,  in 
part  a  peculiarity  of  America,  in  its  character  as  a  new 
country  with  stumps  to  get  out  and  material  civiUzation 
to  erect  from  the  ground  up. 

The  result  of  it  is  that  ability  finds  constant  oppor- 
tunity and  incitement  to  take  a  commercial  direction,  and 
little  to  follow  pure  art  or  letters.  A  man  likes  to  succeed 
in  something,  and  if  he  is  conscious  of  the  capacity  to 
make  his  way  in  business  or  professional  life,  he  is  indis- 
posed to  endure  the  poverty,  uncertainty  and  indifference 
which  attend  the  pursuit  of  an  artistic  calling.  Less  pros- 
perous societies  owe  something  to  that  very  lack  of  oppor- 
tunity which  makes  it  less  easy  for  artistic  ability  to  take 
another  direction. 

An  even  greater  peril  is  the  debasing  of  art  by  an  un- 
cultured market.  There  seem  to  be  plenty  of  artists  of 
every  kind,  but  their  standard  of  success  is  mostly  low. 
The  beginner  too  early  gets  commercial  employment  in 

17.^ 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

which  he  is  not  held  up  to  any  high  ideal.  This  brings 
us  back  to  the  lack  of  a  well-knit  artistic  tradition  to  edu- 
cate both  the  artist  and  the  public,  the  lack  of  a  type, 
"the  non-existence,"  as  Mr.  Russell  Sturgis  says,  *'of 
an  artistic  community  with  a  mind  of  its  own  and  a  cer- 
tain general  agreement  as  to  what  a  work  of  art  ought  to 
be."  This  lack  involves  the  weakness  of  the  criticism 
which  is  required  to  make  the  artist  see  himself  as  he  ought 
to  be.  "That  criticism  is  nowhere  in  proportion  to  the 
need  of  it,"  says  Henry  James,  "is  the  visiting  observer's 
first  and  last  impression — an  impression  so  constant  that 
it  at  times  swallows  up  or  elbows  out  every  other." 

The  antipathy  between  art  and  the  commercial  spirit, 
however,  is  often  much  overstated.  As  a  matter  of  his- 
tory art  and  literature  have  flourished  most  conspicuously 
in  prosperous  commercial  societies,  such  as  Athens,  Flor- 
ence, Venice,  the  communes  of  the  thirteenth  and  four- 
teenth centuries,  the  trading  cities  of  Germany,  the 
Dutch  Republic  and  the  England  of  Elizabeth.  Nothing 
does  more  than  commerce  to  awaken  intelligence,  enter- 
prise and  a  free  spirit,  and  these  are  favorable  to  ideal 
production.  It  is  only  the  extreme  one-sidedness  of  our 
civilization  in  this  regard  that  is  prejudicial. 

It  is  also  true — and  here  we  touch  upon  something  per- 
taining more  to  the  very  nature  of  democracy  than  the 
matters  so  far  mentioned — that  the  zeal  for  diffusion  which 
springs  from  communication  and  sympathy  has  in  it 
much  that  is  not  directly  favorable  to  the  finer  sorts  of 
production. 

Which  is  the  better,  fellowship  or  distinction?  There 
174 


DEMOCRACY   AND  DISTINCTION 

6  much  to  be  said  on  both  sides,  but  the  finer  spirits  of 
our  day  lean  toward  the  former,  and  find  it  more  human 
and  exhilarating  to  spread  abroad  the  good  things  the 
world  already  has  than  to  prosecute  a  lonesome  search 
for  new  ones.  I  notice  among  the  choicest  people  I 
know — those  who  seem  to  me  most  representative  of  the 
inner  trend  of  democracy — a  certain  generous  contempt 
for  distinction  and  a  passion  to  cast  their  lives  heartily 
on  the  general  current.  But  the  highest  things  are  largely 
those  which  do  not  immediately  yield  fellowship  or  diffuse 
joy.  Though  making  in  the  end  for  a  general  good,  they 
are  as  private  in  their  direct  action  as  selfishness  itself, 
from  which  they  are  not  always  easily  distinguished. 
They  involve  intense  self-consciousness.  Probably  men 
who  follow  the  whispers  of  genius  will  always  be  more 
or  less  at  odds  with  their  fellows. 

Ours,  then,  is  an  Age  of  Diffusion.  The  best  minds 
and  hearts  seek  joy  and  self-forgetfulness  in  active  service, 
as  in  another  time  they  might  seek  it  in  solitary  worship; 
God,  as  we  often  hear,  being  sought  more  through  human 
fellowship  and  less  by  way  of  isolate  self-consciousness 
than  was  the  case  a  short  time  since. 

I  need  hardly  particularize  the  educational  and  philan- 
thropic zeal  that,  in  one  form  or  another,  incites  the  better 
minds  among  our  contemporaries  and  makes  them  feel 
guilty  when  they  are  not  in  some  way  exerting  themselves 
to  spread  abroad  material  or  spiritual  goods.  No  one 
would  wish  to  see  this  zeal  diminished;  and  perhaps  it 
makes  in  the  long  run  for  every  kind  of  worthy  achieve- 
ment; but  its  immediate  effect  is  often  to  multiply  the 
commonplace,  giving  point  to  De  Tocqueville's  reflection 

175 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

that  "in  aristocracies  a  few  great  pictures  are  produced, 
in  democratic  countries  a  vast  number  of  insignificant 
ones."*  In  a  spiritual  as  well  as  a  material  sense  there 
is  a  tendency  to  fabricate  cheap  goods  for  an  uncritical 
market. 

"Men  and  gods  are  too  extense."  f 

Finally,  all  theories  that  aim  to  deduce  from  social  con- 
ditions the  limits  of  personal  achievement  must  be  re- 
ceived with  much  caution.  It  is  the  very  nature  of  a  virile 
sense  of  self  to  revolt  from  the  usual  and  the  expected  and 
pursue  a  lonesome  road.  Of  course  it  must  have  support, 
but  it  may  find  this  in  literature  and  im^aginative  inter- 
course. So,  in  spite  of  everything,  we  have  had  in  America 
men  of  signal  distinction — such,  for  instance,  as  Emerson, 
Thoreau  and  Whitman — and  we  shall  no  doubt  have  more. 
We  need  fear  no  dearth  of  inspiring  issues;  for  if  old 
ones  disappear  energetic  minds  will  always  create  new 
ones  by  making  greater  demands  upon  life. 

The  very  fact  that  our  time  has  so  largely  cast  off  all 
sorts  of  structure  is  in  one  way  favorable  to  enduring 
production,  since  it  means  that  we  have  fallen  back  upon 
human  nature,  upon  that  which  is  permanent  and  es- 
sential, the  adequate  record  of  which  is  the  chief  agent  in 
giving  life  to  any  product  of  the  mind. 

*  Democracy  in  America,  vol.  ii,  book  i,  chap.  11, 
t  Emerson,  Alphonso  of  Castile. 


176 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT 


Meaning  and  General  Trend  of  Sentiment — Attenuation- 
Refinement — Sense  of  Justice — Truth  as  Justice — As 
Realism — As  Expediency — As  Economy  of  Attention — 
Hopefulness. 


By  sentiment  I  mean  socialized  feeling,  feeling  which 
has  been  raised  by  thought  and  intercourse  out  of  its 
merely  instinctive  state  and  become  properly  human. 
It  implies  imagination,  and  the  medium  in  which  it  chiefly 
lives  is  sympathetic  contact  with  the  minds  of  others. 
Thus  love  is  a  sentiment,  while  lust  is  not;  resentment  is, 
but  not  rage;  the  fear  of  disgrace  or  ridicule,  but  not 
animal  terror,  and  so  on.  Sentiment  is  the  chief  motive- 
power  of  life,  and  as  a  rule  lies  deeper  in  our  minds  and 
is  less  subject  to  essential  change  than  thought,  from 
which,  however,  it  is  not  to  be  too  sharply  separated. 

Two  traits  in  the  growth  of  sentiment  are  perhaps 
characteristic  of  modern  life,  both  of  which,  as  will  ap- 
pear, are  closely  bound  up  with  the  other  psychological 
changes  that  have  already  been  discussed. 

First  a  trend  toward  diversification:  under  the  im- 
pulse of  a  growing  diversity  of  suggestion  and  intercourse 
many  new  varieties  and  shades  of  sentiment  are  devel- 
oped.    Like  a  stream  which  is  distributed  for  irrigation, 

177 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

the  general  current  of  social  feeling  is  drawn  off  into  man} 
small  channels. 

Second  a  trend  toward  humanism,  meaning  by  this  a 
wider  reach  and  application  of  the  sentiments  that  natu- 
rally prevail  in  the  familiar  intercourse  of  primary  groups. 
Following  a  tendency  evident  in  all  phases  of  the  social 
mind,  these  expand  and  organize  themselves  at  the  ex- 
pense of  sentiments  that  go  with  the  more  formal  or  op- 
pressive structures  of  an  earlier  epoch. 

The  diversification  of  sentiment  seems  to  involve  some 
degree  of  attenuation,  or  decHne  in  volume,  and  also  some 
growth  of  refinement. 

By  the  former  I  mean  that  the  constant  and  varied 
demands  upon  feeling  which  modern  life  makes — in  con- 
trast to  the  occasional  but  often  severe  demands  of  a 
more  primitive  society — give  rise,  very  much  as  in  the  case 
of  the  irrigating  stream,  to  the  need  and  practice  of  more 
economy  and  regularity  in  the  flow,  so  that  "animated 
moderation"*  in  feeling  succeeds  the  alternations  of 
apathy  and  explosion  characteristic  of  a  ruder  condition. 
Thus  our  emotional  experience  is  made  up  of  diverse 
but  for  the  most  part  rather  mild  excitements,  so  that  the 
man  most  at  home  in  our  civilization,  though  more  nimble 
in  sentiment  than  the  man  of  an  earlier  order,  is  perhaps 
somewhat  inferior  in  depth.  Something  of  the  same 
difference  can  be  seen  between  the  city  man  and  the 
farmer;  while  the  latter  is  inferior  in  versatility  and  readi- 
ness of  feeling,  he  has  a  greater  store  of  it  laid  up,  which 
b  apt  to  give  superior  depth  and  momentum  to  such 
*  Bagehot's  phrase.  See  his  Physics  and  Politics. 
178 


THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT 

sentiment  as  he  does  cherish.  Who  has  not  experienced 
the  long-minded  faithfulness  and  kindness,  or  perhaps 
resentment,  of  country  people,  and  contrasted  them 
with  the  less  "table  feelings  of  those  who  live  a  more  urbane 
life? 

In  saying  that  life  tends  toward  refinement  it  is  only 
a  general  trend  that  is  asserted.  We  must  admit  that 
many  phases  of  refined  sentiment  have  been  more  per- 
fectly felt  and  expressed  in  the  past  than  they  are  now; 
but  this  is  a  matter  of  the  maturity  of  special  types  of 
culture,  rather  than  of  general  progress.  Thus  the 
Italian  Renaissance  produced  wonders  of  refinement  in 
art,  as  in  the  painting,  let  us  say,  of  Botticelli;  but  it  was, 
on  the  whole,  a  bloody,  harsh  and  sensual  time  compared 
with  ours,  a  time  when  assassination,  torture  and  rape 
were  matters  of  every  day.  So,  also,  there  is  a  refinement 
of  the  sense  of  language  in  Shakespeare  and  his  con- 
temporaries which  we  can  only  admire,  while  their  plays 
depict  a  rather  gross  state  of  feeling.  A  course  of  reading 
in  English  fiction,  beginning  with  Chaucer  and  ending 
with  James,  Ho  wells  and  Mrs.  Ward,  would  certainly 
leave  the  impression  that  our  sensibilities  had,  on  the 
whole,  grown  finer. 

And  this  is  even  more  true  of  the  common  people  than 
of  the  well-to-do  class  with  which  literature  is  chiefly  oc- 
cupied: the  tendency  to  the  diffusion  of  refinement  being 
more  marked  than  its  increase  in  a  favored  order.  The 
sharp  contrast  in  manners  and  feelings  between  the 
"gentleman,*'  as  formerly  understood,  and  the  peasant, 
artisan    and    trading    classes    has    partly    disappeared. 

179 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

Differences  in  wealth  and  occupation  no  longer  necessitate 
differences  in  real   culture,   the  opportunities  for  which 
are  coming  to  be  open  to  all  classes,  and  in  America,  at 
least,  the  native-bred   farmer  or  handworker  is  not  ur 
commonly,  in  essential  qualities,  a  gentleman. 

The  general  fact  is  that  the  activities  of  life,  to  which 
feeling  responds,  have  become  more  various  and  subtle 
and  less  crudely  determined  by  animal  conditions.  IVIate- 
rial  variety  and  comfort  is  one  phase  of  this:  we  become 
habituated  to  a  comparatively  delicate  existence  and  so 
are  trained  to  shun  coarseness.  Communication,  by 
giving  abundance  and  choice  of  social  contacts,  also  acts 
to  diversify  and  refine  sentiment;  the  grow^th  of  order  dis- 
accustoms us  to  violence,  and  democracy  tends  to  remove 
the  degrading  spectacle  of  personal  or  class  oppression. 

This  modern  refinement  has  the  advantage  that,  being 
a  general  rise  in  level  rather  than  the  achievement  of  a 
class  or  a  nation,  it  is  probably  secure.  It  is  not,  like  the 
refinement  of  Greece,  the  somewhat  precarious  fruit  of 
transient  conditions,  but  a  possession  of  the  race,  in  no 
more  danger  of  dying  out  than  the  steam-engine. 

To  the  trend  toward  humanism  and  the  sentiments — such 
as  justice,  truth,  kindness  and  service — that  go  with  it,  I 
shall  devote  the  rest  of  this  chapter  and  the  one  that 
follows : 

The  basis  of  all  sentiment  of  this  kind  is  the  sense  of 
community,  or  of  sharing  in  a  common  social  or  spiritual 
whole,  membership  in  which  gives  to  all  a  kind  of  inner 
equality,  no  matter  what  their  special  parts  may  be.  It  is 
felt,  however,  that  the  differences  among  men  should  be 

180 


THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT 

functional  and  intrinsic,  not  arbitrary  or  accidental.  The 
sense  of  justice  is  usually  strong  among  the  members 
of  a  sympathetic  group,  the  basis  for  determining  what 
is  just  being  the  perception  of  some  purpose  which  every 
one  is  to  serve,  each  in  his  own  way,  sc  that  he  who 
rightly  holds  a  higher  place  is  the  one  who  can  function 
best  for  the  common  good.  It  does  not  hurt  my  self- 
respect  or  my  allegiance  to  remain  a  common  seaman 
while  another  becomes  captain  of  the  ship,  provided  I 
recognize  that  he  is  the  fitter  man  for  the  place;  and  if  the 
distribution  of  stations  in  society  were  evidently  of  this 
sort  there  would  be  no  serious  protest  against  it.  Whsit 
makes  trouble  is  the  growth  of  an  ideal  of  fair  play  which 
the  actual  system  of  things  does  not  satisfy. 

The  widening  of  sympathy  and  the  consciousness  of 
larger  unity  have  brought  the  hope  and  demand  for  a 
corresponding  extension  of  justice;  and  all  sorts  of  hu- 
manity— not  to  speak  of  the  lower  animals — profit  by 
this  wider  sentiment.  Classes  seek  to  understand  each 
other;  the  personality  of  women  and  children  is  recog- 
nized and  fostered;  there  is  some  attempt  to  sympa- 
thize with  alien  nations  and  races,  civilized  or  savage,  and 
to  help  them  to  their  just  place  in  the  common  life  of 
mankind. 

Our  conception  of  international  rights  reflects  the 
same  view,  and  the  American,  at  least,  desires  that  his 
country  should  treat  other  countries  as  one  just  man 
treats  another,  and  is  proud  when  he  can  believe  that 
she  has  done  so.  It  is  surely  of  seme  significance  that 
in  the  most  powerful  of  democracies  national  selfish- 
ness, in  the  judgment  of  a  competent  European  observer, 

181 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

is  less  cynical  and  obtrusive  than  in  any  of  the  great  ^states 
of  Europe.* 

Truth  is  a  kind  of  justice,  and  wherever  there  is  identi- 
fication of  oneself  with  the  life  of  the  group  it  is  fostered, 
and  lying  tends  to  be  felt  as  mean  and  impolitic.  Serious 
falsehood  among  friends  is,  I  believe,  universally  abhorred 
^by  savages  and  children  as  well  as  by  civihzed  adults. 
To  lie  to  a  friend  is  to  hit  him  from  behind,  to  trip  him 
up  in  the  dark,  and  so  the  moral  sentiment  of  every  group 
attempts  to  suppress  falsehood  among  its  members,  how- 
ever it  may  be  encouraged  as  against  outsiders.  "\Miere- 
fore,"  says  St.  Paul,  *' putting  away  lying,  speak  every 
man  truth  with  his  neighbor,  for  we  are  members  one  of 
another."! 

Our  democratic  system  aims  to  be  a  larger  organization 
of  moral  unity,  and  so  far  as  it  is  so,  in  the  feehng  of  the 
individual,  it  fosters  this  open  and  downright  attitude 
toward  his  fellows.  In  idea,  and  largely  in  fact,  we  are  a 
commonwealth,  of  which  each  one  is  a  member  by  his 
will  and  intelligence,  as  well  as  by  necessity,  and  with 
which,  accordingly,  the  human  sentiment  of  loyalty 
among  those  who  are  members  one  of  another  is  naturally 
in  force.  The  very  disgust  with  which,  in  a  matter 
like  assessment  for  taxation,  men  contemplate  the 
incompatibility  that  sometimes  exists  between  truth 
and  fairness,  is  a  tribute  to  the  prevailing  sentiment  of 
sincerity. 

An  artificial  system,  that  is  one  which,  however  solid 

*  See  James  Bryce,  The  American  Commonwealth,  chap.  87. 
t  Ephesians,  iv,  25. 

182 


THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT 

its  hidden  foundations — and  of  course  all  systems  rest 
on  fact  of  some  sort — does  not  visibly  flow  from  princi- 
ples of  truth  and  fairness,  fails  to  arouse  this  loyalty  of 
partnership.  One  may  be  devoted  to  it,  but  his  devotion 
will  be  based  rather  on  reverence  for  something  above 
him  than  on  a  sense  of  participation,  and  will  call  for  sub- 
mission rather  than  for  straightforward  dealing.  It 
would  seem  that  lying  and  servility  are  natural  in  the  atti- 
tude of  a  subject  toward  a  master,  that  is  toward  a  supe- 
rior but  uncomprehending  power;  while  truth  is  generated 
in  sympathy.  Tyranny  may  be  said  to  make  falsehood  a 
virtue,  and  in  contemporary  Russia,  for  instance,  stealth 
and  evasion  are  the  necessary  and  justifiable  means  of 
pursuing  the  aims  of  human  nature. 

Another  reason  for  the  association  of  freedom  with  truth 
is  that  the  former  is  a  training  in  the  sense  of  social  cause 
and  effect;  the  free  play  of  human  forces  being  a  constant 
demonstration  of  the  power  of  reahty  as  against  sham. 
The  more  men  experiment  intelligently  with  Hfe,  the  more 
they  come  to  believe  in  definite  causation  and  the  less  in 
trickery.  Freedom  means  continuous  experiment,  a 
constant  testing  of  the  individual  and  of  all  kinds  of  social 
ideas  and  arrangements.  It  tends,  then,  to  a  social 
realism;  *'Her  open  eyes  desire  the  truth."  The  best 
people  I  know  are  pervaded  by  the  feeling  that  life  is  so 
real  that  it  is  not  worth  while  to  make  believe.  *' Knights 
of  the  unshielded  heart,"  they  desire  nothing  so  much  as 
to  escape  from  all  pretense  and  prudery  and  confront 
things  as  they  really  are — confident  that  they  are  not  ir- 
remediably bad.     I  read  in  a  current  newspaper  that 

183 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

"brutal,  unvarnished,  careless  frankness  is  the  pose  of 
the  new  type  of  girl.  She  has  not  been  developed  in  a 
school  of  evasion.  To  pretend  you  gave  a  hundred  dol- 
lars for  a  gown  when  you  really  gave  fifty  for  it,  is  a  sorry 
jest  for  her  and  a  waste  of  time.  ...  If  she  owns  to  the 
new  gown  she  tells  you  its  cost,  the  name  of  the  inexpen- 
sive dressmaker  who  made  it,  and  just  where  she  econo- 
mized in  its  price." 

There  is  a  tribute  to  truth  in  the  very  cynicism  and 
shamelessness  with  which  flagitious  politicians  and  finan- 
ciers declare  and  defend  their  practices.  Like  Napoleon 
or  Macchiavelli  they  have  at  least  cast  off  superstition  and 
are  dealing  with  reality,  though  they  apprehend  it  only  in  a 
low  and  partial  aspect.  If  they  lie,  they  do  so  deliberately, 
scientifically,  with  a  view  to  producing  a  certain  effect  upon 
people  whom  they  regard  as  fools.  It  only  needs  that  this 
rational  spirit  should  ally  itself  with  higher  sentiment  and 
deeper  insight  in  order  that  it  should  become  a  source  of 
virtue. 

I  will  not  here  inquire  minutely  how  far  or  in  what 
sense  honesty  is  the  best  policy,  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that 
the  more  life  is  organized  upon  a  basis  of  freedom  and 
justice  the  more  truth  there  is  in  the  proverb.  \'VTien 
the  general  state  of  things  is  anarchical,  as  in  the  time  of 
Macchiavelli,  rationalism  may  lead  to  the  cynical  use 
of  falsehood  as  the  tool  suited  to  the  material;  nor  is  it 
deniable  that  this  is  often  the  case  at  the  present  day. 
But  modern  democracy  aims  to  organize  justice,  and  in 
so  far  as  it  succeeds  it  creates  a  medium  in  which  truth 
tends  to  survive  and  falsehood  to  perish.     We  all  wish  to 

184 


THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT 

live  in  such  a  medium:  there  is  nothing  more  grateful 
than  the  conviction  that  the  order  of  things  is  sincere,  is 
founded  on  reahty  of  some  sort;  and  in  a  good  measure 
the  American,  for  instance,  does  have  this  conviction.  It 
makes  democracy  a  soft  couch  for  the  soul:  one  can  let 
himself  go  and  does  not  have  to  make  believe;  pretence 
is  no  part  of  the  system;  be  your  real  self  and  you  will 
find  your  right  place. 

"I  know  how  the  great  basement  of  all  power 
Is  frankness,  and  a  true  tongue  to  the  world; 
And  how  intriguing  secrecy  is  proof 
Of  fear  and  weakness,  and  a  hollow  state." 

An  artificial  system  must  maintain  itself  by  suppressing 
the  free  play  of  social  forces  and  inculcating  its  own  arti- 
ficial ideas  in  place  of  those  derived  from  experience. 
Free  association,  free  speech,  free  thinldng,  in  so  far  as 
they  touch  upon  matters  vital  to  authority,  are  and  always 
have  been  put  down  under  such  systems,  and  this  means 
that  the  whole  mind  of  the  people  is  emasculated,  as  the 
mind  of  Italy  was  by  Spanish  rule  and  religious  reaction 
in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries.  "Oriental 
mendacity"  is  ascribed  to  the  insecurity  of  life  and  prop- 
erty under  arbitrary  rule;  but  it  is  not  merely  life  and 
property  that  are  affected.  The  very  idea  of  truth  and 
reason  in  human  affairs  can  hardly  prevail  under  a  system 
which  affords  no  observation  to  corroborate  it.  The 
fact  that  in  diplomacy,  for  instance,  there  is  a  growing 
belief  that  it  pays  to  be  simple  and  honest,  I  take  to 
be  a  reflection  of  the  fact  that  the  international  system, 
based  more  and  more  on  intelligent  public  opinion,  is 

185 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

gradually  coming  to  be  a  medium  in  which  truth  is  fit  to 
live. 

Perhaps  something  of  this  hostility  to  truth  will  linger 
in  all  establishments,  however  they  may  be  humanized: 
they  all  involve  a  kind  of  vested  interest  in  certain  ideas 
which  is  not  favorable  to  entire  frankness.  It  sometimes 
appears  that  one  who  would  be  quite  honest  and  stand 
for  human  nature  should  avoid  not  only  religious,  political 
and  educational  allegiance,  but  law,  journaHsm,  snd  all 
positions  where  one  has  to  speak  as  part  of  an  institution. 
As  a  rule  the  great  seers  and  thinkers  have  stood  as  much 
aside  from  institutions  as  the  nature  of  the  human  mind 
permits. 

Still  another  reason  for  the  keener  sense  of  truth  in  our 
day  is  the  need  to  economize  attention.  In  societies 
where  life  is  dull,  fiction,  circumlocution  and  elaborate 
forms  of  intercourse  serve  as  a  sort  of  pastime;  and  the 
first  arouses  no  resentment  unless  some  definite  injury 
is  attempted  by  it.  Although  the  Chinese  are  upright  in 
keeping  their  pecuniary  engagements,  we  are  told  that 
mere  truth  is  not  valued  by  them,  and  is  not  inculcated 
by  their  classic  moralists.  So  in  Italy  the  people  seem  to 
think  that  a  courteous  and  encouraging  He  is  kinder  than 
the  bare  truth,  as  when  a  man  will  pretend  to  give  you 
information  when  he  knows  nothing  about  the  matter. 
A  strenuous  civilization  like  ours  makes  one  intolerant 
of  all  this.  It  is  not  that  we  are  always  hurried;  but  we 
are  so  often  made  to  feel  the  limitations  of  our  attention 
that  we  dislike  to  waste  it.  Thought  is  life,  and  we  wish 
to  get  the  most  reality  for  a  given  outlay  of  it  that  is  to  be 

186 


THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT 
had.     We  wish   to   come   at  once   to   the  Real    Thing, 
whether  it  be  a  business  proposition  or  the  most  subtle 
theory. 

Another  sentiment  favored  by  the  times  is  social  courage 
and  hopefulness,  a  disposition  to  push  forward  with  con- 
fidence regarding  the  future  both  of  the  individual  and  of 
society  at  large.  That  this  attitude  is  the  prevalent  one, 
in  American  democracy  at  least,  nearly  all  observers  are 
agreed.  "Let  any  one,'^  says  Dr.  Lyman  Abbott,  "stand 
on  one  of  our  great  highways  and  watch  the  countenances 
of  the  passers-by;  the  language  written  on  most  of  them 
is  that  of  eagerness,  ambition,  expectation,  hope."* 
There  is  something  ruthless  about  this  headlong  opti- 
mism, which  is  apt  to  deny  and  neglect  failure  and  despair, 
as  certain  religious  sects  of  the  day  deny  and  neglect 
physical  injury;  but  it  answers  its  purpose  of  sustaining 
the  combatants.  It  springs  from  a  condition  in  which 
the  individual,  not  supported  in  any  one  place  by  a  rigid 
system,  is  impelled  from  childhood  to  trust  himself  to 
the  common  current  of  life,  to  make  experiments,  to  ac- 
quire a  habit  of  venture  and  a  working  knowledge  of 
social  forces.  The  state  of  things  instigates  endeavor, 
and,  as  a  rule,  rewards  it  sufficiently  to  keep  up  one's 
courage,  while  occasional  failure  at  least  takes  away  that 
vague  dread  of  the  unknown  which  is  often  worse  than 
the  reality.  Life  is  natural  and  vivid,  not  the  wax-works 
of  an  artificial  order,  and  has  that  enlivening  effect  that 
comes  from  being  thrown  back  upon  human  nature.  A 
real  pessimism — one  which  despairs  of  the  general  trend 
*  In  Shaler's  United  States,  ii,  594. 

187 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

of  things — is  rare  and  without  much  influence,  even  the 
revolutionary  sects  maintaining  that  the  changes  they 
desire  are  in  the  Hne  of  a  natural  evolution.  Discontent 
is  affirmative  and  constructive  rather  than  stagnant:  it 
works  out  programmes  and  hopefully  agitates  for  their 
realization.  There  is  a  kind  of  piety  and  trust  in  God 
to  be  seen  in  the  confidence  with  which  small  bodies  of 
men  anticipate  the  success  of  principles  they  believe  to  be 
right. 


■J!^ 


CHAPTER  XVil 

THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT;  Continued 

Nature  of  the  Sentiment  of  Brotherhood — Favored  by  Com- 
munication AND  Settled  Principles — How  Far  Contempo- 
rary Life  Fosters  It — How  Far  Uncongenial  To  It — Gen- 
eral Outcome  in  this  Regard — The  Spirit  of  Service — 
The  Trend  of  Manners — Brotherhood  in  Relation  to 
Conflict — Blame — Democracy  and  Christianity. 

The  sentiment  of  mutual  kindness  or  brotherhood  is  a 
simple  and  widespread  thing,  belonging  not  only  to  man 
in  every  stage  of  his  development,  but  extending,  in  a 
crude  form,  over  a  great  part  of  animal  life.  Prince 
Kropotkin,  in  his  Mutual  Aid  a  Factor  in  Evolution,  has 
collected  illustrations  of  its  universality  and  significance. 
*'.  .  .  the  necessity  of  communicating  impressions,"  he 
says,  "of  playing,  of  chattering,  or  of  simply  feeling  the 
proximity  of  other  kindred  living  beings  pervades  nature, 
and  is,  as  much  as  any  other  physiological  function,  a  dis- 
tinctive feature  of  life  and  impressionability."*  Darwin 
perceived,  what  Kropotkin  and  others  have  illustrated 
with  convincing  fulness,  that  this  fusing  kindliness  under- 
lies all  higher  phases  of  evolution,  and  is  essential  to  the 
cooperative  life  in  which  thought  and  power  are  developed. 
The  popular  notion  that  kindly  sentiment  can  only  be  a 
hindrance  to  the  survival  of  the  fittest  is  a  somewhat  per- 
nicious misapprehension. 

This  sentiment  flourishes  most  in  primary  groups, 
where,  as  we  have  seen,  it  contributes  to  an  ideal  of  moral 
unity  of  which  kindness  is  a  main  part.     Under  its  in- 

'•  Page  55. 

1S9 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

fluence  the  I-feeling  becomes  a  we-feeling,  which  seeks 
no  good  that  is  not  also  the  good  of  the  group.  And  the 
humanism  of  our  time  strives  with  renewed  energy  to 
make  the  we-feeling  prevail  also  in  the  larger  phases  of 
life.  "We  must  demand,"  says  a  writer  who  lives  very 
close  to  the  heart  of  the  people,*  "that  the  individual  shall 
be  willing  to  lose  the  sense  of  personal  achievement,  and 
shall  be  content  to  realize  his  activity  only  in  connection 
with  the  activity  of  the  many."  Huxley  at  one  time  felt 
this  so  strongly  as  to  say,  "If  I  had  400  pounds  a  year  I 
would  never  let  my  name  appear  to  anything  I  did  or 
shall  do."t 

Such  utterances,  though  significant,  are  one-sided,  and 
it  is  perhaps  more  in  the  way  of  real  progress  to  demand, 
not  that  the  sense  of  personal  achievement  shall  be  given 
up,  but  that  it  shall  be  more  allied  with  fellow-feeling. 
The  sort  of  ambition  congenial  to  the  we-feeling  is  one 
directed  toward  those  common  aims  in  which  the  success 
of  one  is  the  success  of  all,  not  toward  admiration  or 
riches.  Material  goods,  one  feels,  should  not  be  appro- 
priated for  pride  or  luxury,  but,  being  limited  in  amount, 
should  be  used  in  a  consciousness  of  the  general  need, 
and  apportioned  by  rules  of  justice  framed  to  promote  a 
higher  life  in  the  whole. 

Much  might  be  said  of  the  we-feeling  as  joy: 

Perche  quanto  si  dice  piu  li  nostro, 
Tanto  possiede  piu  di  ben  ciascuno, 
E  piu  di  caritate  arde  in  quel  chiostro.| 

*  Jane  Addams,  Democracy  and  Social  Ethics,  275. 

t  Quoted  in  The  Commons,  October,  1903. 

I  Dante,  Purgatorio,  15,  55-57.     He  is  speaking  of  Paradise. 

190 


THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT 

For  there,  as  much  the  more  as  one  says  Our^ 
So  much  the  more  of  good  each  one  possesseth, 
And  more  of  charity  in  that  cloister  burns.* 

There  is  nothing  more  wholesome  or  less  pursued  by 
compunction.  To  mingle  our  emotions  with  fellowship 
enlarges  and  soothes  them;  even  resentment  on  behalf  of 
us  is  less  rankling  than  on  behalf  of  only  me,  and  there 
is  something  cheerful  in  suffering  wrong  in  friendly  com- 
pany. One  of  the  most  obvious  things  about  selfish- 
ness is  the  unhappiness  of  it,  the  lack  of  imaginative  ex- 
patiation,  of  the  inspiration  of  working  consciously  with 
a  vast  whole,  of  "the  exhilaration  and  uplift  which  come 
when  the  individual  sympathy  and  intelligence  is  caught 
into  the  forward  intuitive  movement  of  the  mass.^f 
Fellowship  is  thus  a  good  kind  of  joy  in  that  it  is  indefinitely 
diffusible;  though  by  no  means  incapable  of  abuse,  since 
it  may  be  cultivated  at  the  expense  of  truth,  sanity  and 
individuality. 

Everything  that  tends  to  bring  mankind  together  in 
larger  wholes  of  sympathy  and  understanding  tends  to 
enlarge  the  reach  of  kindly  feeling.  Among  the  condi- 
tions that  most  evidently  have  this  effect  are  facility  of 
communication  and  the  acceptance  of  common  princi- 
ples. These  permit  the  contact  and  fusion  of  minds  and 
tend  to  mould  the  group  into  a  moral  whole. 

In  times  of  settled  principles  and  of  progress  in  the  arts 

of  communication  the  idea  of  the  brotherhood  of  man  has 

a  natural  growth;    as  it  had  under  the  Roman  Empire. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  is  dissipated  by  whatever  breaks  up 

*  Longfellow's  Translation. 

t  ^^^^  Addams,  Democracy  and  Social  Ethics,  272. 

191 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

the  moral  unity  and  makes  human  interests  seem  incon- 
sistent. Not  only  war,  but  all  kinds  of  destructive  or  un- 
regulated competition,  in  which  the  good  of  one  party 
appears  to  be  a  private  good  gained  by  the  harm  of  an- 
other, are  reflected  in  the  mind  by  unkindly  feeHng. 
What  human  nature  needs  is — not  the  disappearance  of 
opposition,  which  would  be  death — but  the  suppression 
of  destructive  forms,  and  the  control  of  all  forms  by  prin- 
ciples of  justice  and  kindness,  so  that  men  may  feel  that 
the  good  survives. 

As  regards  the  bearing  of  contemporary  conditions  upon 
the  spirit  of  brotherhood,  we  find  forces  at  work  so  con- 
flicting that  it  is  easy  to  reach  opposite  conclusions,  ac- 
cording to  the  bias  of  the  observer. 

The  enlargement  of  consciousness  has  brought  a  broad- 
ening of  sentiment  in  all  directions.  As  a  rule  kindly  feel- 
ing follows  understanding,  and  there  was  never  such  op- 
portunity and  encouragement  to  understand  as  there  is 
now.  Distant  peoples — Russians,  Chinese  and  South 
Sea  Islanders;  alienated  classes — criminals,  vagrants, 
idiots  and  the  insane,  are  brought  close  to  us,  and  the 
natural  curiosity  of  man  about  his  fellows  is  exploited 
and  stimulated  by  the  press.  Indeed,  the  decried  habit 
of  reading  the  newspapers  contributes  much  to  a  general 
we-feeling,  since  the  newspaper  is  a  reservoir  of  common- 
place thought  of  which  every  one  partakes — and  which  he 
knows  he  may  impute  to  every  one  else — pervading  the 
world  with  a  conscious  community  of  sentiment  which 
lends  toward  kindliness. 

Even  more  potent,  perhaps,  is  the  indirect  action  of 
192 


THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT 

communication  in  making  it  possible  to  organize  all  phases 
of  life  on  a  larger  scale  and  on  a  more  human  basis;  in 
promoting  democracy  and  breaking  down  caste.  Under 
a  democratic  system  the  masses  have  means  of  self-ex- 
pression; they  vote,  strike,  and  print  their  views.  They 
have  power,  and  this,  at  bottom,  is  the  source  of  all  respect 
and  consideration.  People  of  other  classes  have  to  think 
of  them,  feel  with  them  and  recognize  them  as  of  a  com- 
mon humanity.  Moreover,  in  tending  to  wipe  out  con- 
ventional distinctions  and  leave  only  those  that  are  func- 
tional, democracy  fosters  the  notion  of  an  organic  whole, 
from  which  all  derive  and  in  which  they  find  their  value. 
A  sense  of  common  nature  and  purpose  is  thus  nourished, 
a  conscious  unity  of  action  which  gives  the  sense  of  fellow- 
ship. It  comes  to  be  assumed  that  men  are  of  the  same 
stuff,  and  a  kind  of  universal  sympathy — not  incompatible 
with  opposition — is  spread  abroad.  It  is  realized  that 
"  there  are  diversities  of  gifts  but  the  same  spirit." 

On  the  other  hand,  our  life  is  full  of  a  confusion  which 
often  leaves  the  individual  conscious  only  of  his  separate- 
ness,  engaged  in  a  struggle  which,  so  far  as  he  sees,  has 
no  more  relation  to  justice  and  the  common  good  than  a 
dog-fight.  Whether  he  win  or  lose  makes,  in  this  case, 
little  difference  as  to  the  effect  upon  his  general  view  of 
life:  he  infers  that  the  world  is  a  place  where  one  must 
either  eat  or  be  eaten;  the  idea  of  the  brotherhood  of  man 
appears  to  be  an  enervating  sentimentalism,  and  the  true 
philosophy  that  of  the  struggle  for  existence,  which  he 
understands  in  a  brutal  sense  opposite  to  the  real  teaching 
of  science.     Nothing  could  be  more  uncongenial  to  the  we- 

193 


SOCIAL  ORGAiNIZATION 

feeling  than  this  view,  which  unfortunate  experience  has 
prepared  many  to  embrace,  taking  from  life,  as  it  does,  its 
breadth  and  hopefulness,  the  joy  and  inspiration  of  work- 
ing in  a  vast  and  friendly  whole. 

Probably  most  of  us  are  under  the  sway  of  both  of  these 
tendencies.  We  feel  the  new  idealism,  the  sweep  and 
exhilaration  of  democracy,  but  we  practise,  nevertheless, 
a  thrifty  exploitation  of  all  the  private  advantages  we  can 
decently  lay  our  hands  on;  nor  have  we  the  moral  vigor 
to  work  out  any  reconciliation  of  these  principles.  Ex- 
perience shows,  I  think,  that  until  a  higher  sentiment, 
like  brotherly  kindness,  attains  some  definite  organiza- 
tion and  programme,  so  that  men  are  held  up  to  it,  it  is 
remarkably  ineffective  in  checldng  selfish  activities. 
People  drift  on  and  on  in  lower  courses,  which  at  bottom 
they  despise  and  dislike,  simply  because  they  lack  energy 
and  initiative  to  get  out  of  them.  How  true  it  is  that 
many  of  us  would  like  to  be  made  to  be  better  than  we 
are.  I  have  seen  promising  idealists  grow  narrow, 
greedy  and  sensual — and  of  course  unhappy — as  they  pros- 
pered in  the  world;  for  no  reason,  apparently,  but  lack  of 
definite  stimulation  to  a  higher  life.  There  is  firm  ground 
for  the  opinion  that  human  nature  is  prepared  for  a  higher 
organization  than  we  have  worked  out. 

Certainly  there  is,  on  the  whole,  a  more  lively  and  hope- 
ful pursuit  of  the  brotherhood  of  man  in  modern  democ- 
racy than  there  ever  was,  on  a  large  scale,  before.  One 
who  is  not  deaf  to  the  voices  of  literature,  of  social  agita- 
tion, of  ordinary  intercourse,  can  hardly  doubt  this.  The 
social  settlement  and  similar  movements  express  it,  and 

194 


THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT 

SO,  more  and  more,  does  the  whole  feeHng  of  our  society 
regarding  richer  and  poorer.  Philanthropy  is  not  only 
extending,  but  undergoing  a  revolution  of  principle  from 
alms  to  justice  and  from  condescension  to  fellowship. 
The  wealthy  and  the  educated  classes  feel,  however  vaguely, 
that  they  must  justify  their  advantages  to  their  fellow 
men  and  their  own  consciences  by  making  some  public  use 
of  them.  Gifts— well  meant  if  not  always  wise — to  education, 
science  and  philanthropy  are  increasing,  and  there  was 
never,  perhaps,  a  more  prevalent  disposition  to  make  un- 
usual mental  acquirements  available  toward  general  culture. 

Even  the  love  of  publicity  and  display,  said  to  mark 
our  rich  people,  has  its  amiable  side  as  indicating  a  desire 
to  impress  general  opinion,  rather  than  that  of  an  ex- 
clusive class.  Indeed,  if  there  is  anywhere  in  American 
society  an  exclusive  and  self-sufficient  kind  of  people,  they 
are  not  a  kind  who  have  much  influence  upon  the  general 
spirit. 

The  same  sentiment  incites  us,  in  our  better  moments, 
to  shun  habits,  modes  of  dress  and  the  like  that  are  not 
good  in  themselves  and  merely  accentuate  class  lines;  to 
save  on  private  and  material  objects  so  as  to  have  the 
more  energy  to  be  humanly,  spiritually,  alive.  This, 
for  example,  is  the  teaching  of  Thoreau,  whose  works, 
especially  his  Walden,  have  latterly  a  wide  circulation. 
If  Thoreau  seems  a  little  too  aloof  and  fastidious  to  rep- 
resent democracy,  this  is  not  the  case  with  Whitman,  who 
had  joy  in  the  press  of  cities,  and  whose  passion  was  to 
"utter  the  word  Democratic,  the  word  En  Masse."*  His 
chants  express  a  great  gusto  in  common  life:  *' AW  this  I 
*  Leaves  of  Grass  (1884),  page  9. 
195 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

swallow,  it  tastes  good,  I  like  it  well,  it  becomes  mine;  1 
am  the  man,  I  suffered,  I  was  there."*  "Whoever  de- 
grades another  degrades  me/'f  **By  God!  I  will  accept 
nothing  which  all  cannot  have  their  counterpart  of  on 
the  same  terms.'' f  "I  believe  the  main  purport  of 
these  states  is  to  found  a  superb  friendship,  exalte,  pre- 
viously unknown."  <^ 

On  the  whole,  Americans  may  surely  claim  that  there 
was  never  before  a  great  nation  in  which  the  people  felt 
so  much  like  a  family,  had  so  kindly  and  cheerful  a  sense 
of  a  common  life.  It  is  not  only  that  the  sentiment  has  a 
wider  range;  there  is  also  more  faith  in  its  future,  more 
belief  that  government  and  other  institutions  can  be  made 
to  express  it.  And  the  popular  agitation  of  all  countries 
manifests  the  same  belief — socialism,  and  even  anarchism, 
as  well  as  the  labor  movement  and  the  struggle  againsr 
monopoly  and  corruption. 

A  larger  spirit  of  service  is  the  active  side  of  democrat; i? 
feeling.  A  life  of  service  of  some  sort — in  behalf  of  the  cla?! 
or  tribe,  of  the  chief,  of  the  sovereign,  of  the  mistress,  of 
the  Church,  of  God — has  always  been  the  ideal  life,  siiice 
no  imaginative  and  truly  human  mind  contents  itself  with 
a  separate  good:  what  is  new  is  that  the  object  of  this 
service  tends  to  become  wider,  with  the  modern  expan- 
sion of  the  imagination,  and  to  include  all  classes,  all 
nations  and  races,  in  its  ideal  scope.  The  narrower 
boundaries  do  not  disappear,  but  as  they  become  les^t  dis- 
tinct the  greater  whole  becomes  more  so-  As  ^he  chili 
grows  until  he  can  see  over  the  hedges  bounding  his  earN 

*  Idem^  59.  f  Idem,  48.  J  Idem,  48.  §  Idem,  i  iO. 

196 


THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT 

playground,  so  the  democratized  individual  has  outgrown 
the  limits  of  the  clan  or  the  caste. 

In  the  United  States,  at  least,  the  feeling  that  every- 
body ought  to  be  doing  something  useful  is  so  established 
that  there  is  no  influential  class  within  which  idleness  is 
respectable.  Whatever  narrowness  there  may  be  in  this 
spirit,  in  the  way  of  undervaluing  activities  whose  useful- 
ness is  of  an  inobvious  sort,  it  is  sound  on  the  whole  and 
does  incalculable  service  in  redeeming  riches  from  vul- 
garity and  corruption.  If  it  be  true,  as  is  asserted,  that 
the  children  of  the  wealthy,  with  us,  are  on  the  whole  less 
given  to  sloth  and  vice  than  the  same  class  in  older  coun- 
tries, the  reason  is  to  be  found  in  a  healthier,  more  organic 
state  of  public  opinion  which  penetrates  all  classes  with 
the  perception  that  the  significance  of  the  individual  lies 
in  his  service  to  the  whole.  That  this  sentiment  is  gain- 
ing in  our  colleges  is  evident  to  those  who  know  anything  of 
these  institutions.  Studies  that  throw  light  on  the  nature 
and  working  of  society,  past  or  present,  and  upon  the  op- 
portunities of  service  or  distinction  which  it  offers  to  the 
individual,  are  rapidly  taking  the  place,  for  purposes  of 
culture,  of  studies  whose  human  value  is  less,  or  not  so 
apparent.  Classes  in  history — political,  industrial  and 
social — in  economics,  in  government  and  administration, 
in  sociology  and  ethics,  in  charities  and  penology,  are 
larger  year  by  year.  And  the  young  people,  chiefly 
from  the  well-to-do  classes,  who  seek  these  studies,  are 
one  and  all  adherents  of  the  democratic  idea  that  priv- 
ilege must  be  earned  by  function. 

The  tendency  of  manners  well  expresses  that  of  senti- 
ment, and  seems  to  be  toward  a  spontaneous  courtesy. 

197 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

expressing  truth  and  equality  as  against  the  concealment 
and,  sometimes,  the  arrogance,  of  mere  polish.  The  best 
practice  appears  to  be  to  put  yourself,  on  approaching  an- 
other, into  as  open  and  kindly  a  frame  of  mind  toward  him 
as  you  can,  but  not  to  try  to  express  more  than  you  feel, 
preferring  coldness  to  affected  warmth.  Democracy  is 
too  busy  and  too  fond  of  truth  and  human  nature  to  like 
formality,  except  as  an  occasional  amusement.  A  merely 
formal  politeness  goes  with  a  crystallized  society,  indicating 
a  certain  distrust  of  human  nature  and  desire  to  cloak  or 
supplant  it  by  propriety.  Thus  a  Chinese  teacher,  having 
a  rare  opportunity  to  send  a  message  to  his  old  mother, 
called  one  of  his  pupils  saying,  *'Here,  take  this  paper  and 
write  me  a  letter  to  my  mother."  This  proceeding  struck 
the  observer  as  singular,  and  he  enquired  if  the  lad  was 
acquainted  with  the  teacher's  mother,  learning  that  the 
boy  did  not  even  know  there  was  such  a  person.  "How, 
then,  was  he  to  know  what  to  say,  not  having  been  told  V 
To  this  the  schoolmaster  made  reply:  *' Doesn't  he  know 
quite  well  what  to  say  ?  For  more  than  a  year  he  has  been 
studying  literary  composition,  and  he  is  acquainted  with 
a  number  of  elegant  formulas.  Do  you  think  he  does 
not  know  perfectly  well  how  a  son  ought  to  write  to  a 
mother?"  The  letter  would  have  answered  equally  well 
for  any  other  mother  in  the  Empire.*  Here  is  one  ex- 
treme, and  the  kindly  frontiersman  with  ''no  manners  at 
all"  is  at  the  other. 

No  doubt  form,  in  manners  as  well  as  elsewhere,  is 
capable  of  a  beauty  and  refinement  of  its  own,  and  prob- 
ably raw  democracy  goes  to  an  anarchic  excess  in  depreci- 
*  Arthur  H.  Smith,  Chinese  Characteristics,  181. 
198 


THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT 

Siting  it;  but  the  sentiment  of  reality  which  demands  that 
form  and  content  should  agree,  is  perhaps  a  permanent 
factor  in  the  best  manners. 

Conflict,  of  some  sort,  is  the  life  of  society,  and  progress 
emerges  from  a  struggle  in  which  each  individual,  class 
or  institution  seeks  to  realize  its  own  idea  of  good.  The 
intensity  of  this  struggle  varies  directly  as  the  vigor  of  the 
people,  and  its  cessation,  if  conceivable,  would  be  death. 
There  is,  then,  no  prospect  of  an  amiable  unanimity,  and 
the  question  arises.  What  change,  if  any,  in  the  nature  of 
opposition  and  of  hostility,  accompanies  the  alleged  growth 
of  the  sense  of  brotherhood  ? 

The  answer  to  this  is  probably  best  sought  by  asking  our- 
selves what  is  the  difference  between  the  opposition  of 
friends  and  that  of  enemies.  Evidently  the  former  may 
be  as  energetic  as  the  latter,  but  it  is  less  personal:  that 
is,  it  is  not  directed  against  the  opponent  as  a  whole,  but 
against  certain  views  or  purposes  which  the  opponent — 
toward  whom  a  kindly  feeling  is  still  cherished — for  the 
time  being  represents.  The  opposition  of  enemies,  on 
the  other  hand,  involves  a  personal  antagonism  and  is 
gratified  by  a  personal  injury. 

Well-conducted  sports  are  a  lesson  to  every  one  that 
fair  and  orderly  opposition  may  even  promote  good  fellow- 
ship; and  familiarity  with  them,  in  primary  groups,  is  an 
excellent  preparation  for  the  friendly  competition  that 
ought  to  prevail  in  society  at  large.  Indeed  it  is  only 
through  opposition  that  we  learn  to  understand  one  an- 
other. In  the  moment  of  struggle  the  opposing  agent 
may  arouse  anger,  but  afterward  the  mind,  more  at  ease. 

199 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

views  with  respect  and  interest  that  which  has  exhibited 
so  much  force.  It  seems  evident,  for  instance,  that  the 
self-assertion  of  the  wage-earning  class,  so  far  as  it  is 
orderly  and  pursuant  of  ideals  which  all  classes  share, 
has  commanded  not  only  the  respect  but  the  good  will  of 
the  people  at  large.  Weakness — intrinsic  weakness,  the 
failure  of  the  member  to  assert  its  function — is  instinctively 
despised.  I  am  so  far  in  sympathy  with  the  struggle  for 
existence  as  to  think  that  passive  kindliness  alone,  apart 
from  self-assertion,  is  a  demoralizing  ideal,  or  would  be 
if  it  were  likely  to  become  ascendant.  But  the  self  which 
is  asserted,  the  ideal  fought  for,  rnust  be  a  generous  one — 
involving  perhaps  self-sacrifice  as  that  is  ordinarily  under- 
stood— or  the  struggle  is  degrading. 

The  wider  contact  which  marks  modern  life,  the  sup- 
pling of  the  imagination  which  enables  it  to  appreciate 
diverse  phases  of  human  nature,  the  more  instructed  sense 
of  justice,  brings  in  a  larger  good  will  which  economizes 
personal  hostility  without  necessarily  diminishing  oppo- 
sition. In  primitive  life  the  reaction  of  man  against  man 
is  crude,  impulsive,  wasteful.  Violent  anger  is  felt  against 
the  opponent  as  a  whole  and  expressed  by  a  general  as- 
sault. Civilized  man,  trained  to  be  more  discriminating, 
strikes  at  tendencies  rather  than  persons,  and  avoids 
so  far  as  possible  hostile  emotion,  which  he  finds  painful 
and  exhausting.  As  an  opponent  he  is  at  once  kinder 
and  more  formidable  than  the  savage. 

Perhaps  the  most  urgent  need  of  the  present  time,  so 
far  as  regards  the  assuaging  of  antipathy,  is  some  clearer 
consciousness  of  what  may  be  called,  in  the  widest  sense, 
the  rules  of  the  game;  that  is,  for  accepted  ideals  of  justice 

200 


THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT 

which  conscience  and  pubHc  opinion  may  impose  upon 
reasonable  men,  and  law  upon  the  unreasonable.  In 
the  lack  of  clear  notions  of  right  and  duty  the  orderly  test 
of  strength  degenerates  into  a  scuffle,  in  which  the  worst 
passions  are  released  and  low  forms  of  power  tend  to 
prevail — just  as  brutal  and  tricky  methods  prevail  in  ill- 
regulated  sports.  We  need  a  popular  ethics  which  is  at 
once  Christian  and  evolutionary,  recognizing  unity  ot 
spirit  alongside  of  diversity  of  standpoint;  a  cooperative 
competition,  giving  each  individual,  group  or  race  a  fair 
chance  for  higher  self-assertion  under  conditions  so  just 
as  to  give  the  least  possible  occasion  for  ill-feeling.  Some- 
thing of  this  sort  is  in  fact  the  ideal  in  accordance  with 
which  modern  democracy  hopes  to  reconstruct  a  some- 
what disordered  world. 

There  is  a  French  maxim,  much  quoted  of  late,  to  the 
effect  that  to  understand  all  is  to  pardon  all:  all  animosity, 
as  some  interpret  this,  is  a  mistake;  when  we  fully  under- 
stand we  cease  to  blame.  This,  however,  is  only  a  half- 
truth,  and  becomes  a  harmful  fallacy  when  it  is  made  to 
stand  for  the  whole.  It  is  true  that  if  we  wholly  lose  our- 
selves in  another's  state  of  mind  blame  must  disappear: 
perhaps  nothing  is  felt  as  wrong  by  him  who  does  it  at 
the  very  instant  it  is  done.  But  this  is  more  than  we  have 
a  right  to  do:  it  involves  that  we  renounce  our  moral  in- 
dividuality, the  highest  part  of  our  being,  and  become  a 
mere  intelligence.  The  fact  that  every  choice  is  natural 
to  the  mind  that  chooses  does  not  make  it  right. 

The  truth  is  that  we  must  distinguish,  in  such  questions 
as  this,  two  attitudes  of  mind,  the  active  and  the  con- 

201 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

templative,  both  natural  and  having  important  functions, 
but  neither  by  itself  sufficient.  Pure  contemplation  sees 
things  and  their  relations  as  a  picture  and  with  no  sense 
of  better  or  worse;  it  does  not  care;  it  is  the  ideal  of  science 
and  speculative  philosophy.  If  one  could  be  completely 
in  this  state  of  mind  he  would  cease  to  be  a  self  altogether. 
All  active  personaHty,  and  especially  all  sense  of  right  and 
wrong,  of  duty,  responsibiUty,  blame,  praise  and  the  hke, 
depend  upon  the  mind  taking  sides  and  having  particular 
desires  and  purposes. 

The  unhappiness  of  bad  men,  maintained  by  Socrates, 
depends  upon  their  badness  being  brought  home  to  them 
in  conscience.  If,  because  of  their  insensibility  or  lack 
of  proper  reproof,  the  error  of  their  way  is  not  impressed 
upon  them,  they  have  no  motive  to  reform.  The  fact 
that  the  evil-doer  has  become  such  gradually,  and  does 
not  realize  the  evil  in  him,  is  no  reason  why  we  should 
not  blame  him;  it  is  the  function  of  blame  to  make  him  and 
others  realize  it,  to  define  evil  and  declare  it  in  the  sight 
of  men.  We  may  pardon  the  evil-doer  when  he  is  dead, 
or  has  sincerely  and  openly  repented,  not  while  he  remains 
a  force  for  wrong. 

It  seems  that  the  right  way  lies  between  the  old  vin- 
dictiveness  and  the  view  now  somewhat  prevalent  that 
crime  should  be  regarded  without  resentment,  quite  like 
a  disease  of  the  flesh.  The  resentment  of  society,  if  just 
and  moderate,  is  a  moral  force,  and  definite  forms  of 
punishment  are  required  to  impress  it  upon  the  general 
mind.  If  crime  is  a  disease  it  is  a  moral  disease  and  calls 
for  moral  remedies,  among  which  is  effective  resentment. 
It  is  right  that  one  who  harms  the  state  should  go  to  prison 

202 


THE  TREND  OF  SENTIMENT 

in  the  sight  of  all ;  but  it  is  right  also  that  all  should  under- 
stand that  this  is  done  for  the  defence  of  society,  and  not 
because  the  offender  is  imagined  to  be  another  kind  of 
man  from  the  rest  of  us. 

The  democratic  movement,  insomuch  as  it  feels  a  com- 
mon spirit  in  all  men,  is  of  the  same  nature  as  Christian- 
ity; and  it  is  said  with  truth  that  while  the  world  was  never 
so  careless  as  now  of  the  mechanism  of  religion,  it  was 
never  so  Christian  in  feeling.  A  deeper  sense  of  a  com- 
mon life,  both  as  incarnated  in  the  men  about  us  and  as 
inferred  in  some  larger  whole  behind  and  above  them — 
in  God — belongs  to  the  higher  spirit  of  democracy  as  it 
does  to  the  teaching  of  Jesus. 

He  calls  the  mind  out  of  the  narrow  and  transient  self 
of  sensual  appetites  and  visible  appurtenances,  which  all 
of  us  in  our  awakened  moments  feel  to  be  inferior,  and 
fills  it  with  the  incorrupt  good  of  higher  sentiment.  We 
are  to  love  men  as  brothers,  to  fix  our  attention  upon  the 
best  that  is  in  them,  and  to  make  their  good  our  own  am- 
bition. 

Such  ideals  are  perennial  in  the  human  heart  and  as 
sound  in  psychology  as  in  religion.  The  mind,  in  its  best 
moments,  is  naturally  Christian;  because  when  we  are 
most  fully  alive  to  the  life  about  us  the  sympathetic  be- 
comes the  rational;  what  is  good  for  you  is  good  for  me 
because  I  share  your  life;  and  I  need  no  urging  to  do 
by  you  as  I  would  have  you  do  by  me.  Justice  and  kind- 
ness are  matters  of  course,  and  also  humility,  which  comes 
from  being  aware  of  something  superior  to  your  ordinary 
self.     To  one  in  whom  human  nature  is  fully  awake  '*  Love 

203 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

your  enemies  and  do  good  to  them  that  despitefully  use 
you"  is  natural  and  easy,  because  despiteful  people  are 
seen  to  be  in  a  state  of  unhappy  aberration  from  the  higher 
life  of  kindness,  and  there  is  an  impulse  to  help  them  to 
get  back.  The  awakened  mind  identifies  itself  with  other 
persons,  living  the  sympathetic  life  and  following  the  golden 
rule  by  impulse. 

To  put  it  otherwise,  Christ  and  modern  democracy 
alike  represent  a  protest  against  whatever  is  dead  in  in- 
stitutions, and  an  attempt  to  bring  life  closer  to  the  higher 
impulses  of  human  nature.  There  is  a  common  aspiration 
to  effectuate  homely  ideals  of  justice  and  kindness.  The 
modern  democrat  is  a  plain  man  and  Jesus  was  another. 
It  is  no  wonder,  then,  that  the  characteristic  thought  of 
the  day  is  preponderantly  Christian,  in  the  sense  of  shar- 
ing the  ideals  of  Christ,  and  that  in  so  far  as  it  distrusts 
the  Church  it  is  on  the  ground  that  the  Church  is  not 
Christian  enough. 

But  how  far,  after  all,  is  this  brotherly  and  peaceful 
sentiment,  ancient  or  modern,  applicable  to  life  as  we 
know  it  ?  Is  it  feasible,  is  it  really  right,  is  it  not  a  senti- 
ment of  submission  in  a  world  that  grows  by  strife  ?  After 
what  has  already  been  said  on  this,  it  is  perhaps  enough 
to  add  here  that  neither  in  the  life  of  Christ  nor  in  modern 
democracy  do  we  find  sanction  for  submission  to  essential, 
moral  wrong.  Christ  brought  a  sword  which  the  good 
man  of  our  day  can  by  no  means  sheathe :  his  counsels  of 
submission  seem  to  refer  to  merely  personal  injuries, 
which  it  may  be  better  to  overlook  in  order  to  keep  the 
conflict  on  a  higher  plane.  If  we  mean  by  Christianity 
an  understanding  and  brotherly  spirit  toward    all   men 

'204  ' 


THE  TREND  OP  SENTIMENT 

and  a  reverence  for  the  higher  Life  behind  them,  ex- 
pressed in  an  infinite  variety  of  conduct  according  to 
conditions,  it  would  seem  to  be  always  right,  and  always 
feasible,  so  far  as  we  have  strength  to  rise  to  it. 

The  most  notable  reaction  of  democracy  upon  religious 
sentiment  is  no  doubt  a  tendency  to  secularize  it,  to  fix  it 
upon  human  life  rather  than  upon  a  vague  other  world. 
So  soon  as  men  come  to  feel  that  society  is  not  a  machine, 
controlled  chiefly  by  the  powers  of  darkness,  but  an  ex- 
pression of  human  nature,  capable  of  reflecting  whatever 
good  human  nature  can  rise  to;  so  soon,  that  is,  as  there 
comes  to  be  a  public  will,  the  religious  spirit  is  drawn  into 
social  idealism.  Why  dream  of  a  world  to  come  when 
there  is  hopeful  activity  in  this  ?  God,  it  seems,  is  to  be 
found  in  human  life  as  well  as  beyond  it,  and  social 
service  is  a  method  of  his  worship.  "  If  ye  love  not  your 
brother  whom  ye  have  seen,  how  can  ye  love  God  whom 
ye  have  not  seen?" 

An  ideal  democracy  is  in  its  nature  religious,  and  its 
true  sovereign  may  be  said  to  be  the  higher  nature,  oi 
God,  which  it  aspires  to  incarnate  in  human  institutions 


•ms 


PART  IV 
SOCIAL  CLASSES 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  HEREDITARY  OR  CASTE  PRINCIPLE 

Nature  and  Use  of  Classes — Inheritance  and  Competition 
THE  Two  Principles  upon  which  Classes  are  Based — Con- 
ditions IN  Human  Nature  Making  for  Hereditary  Classes 
— Caste  Spirit. 

Speaking  roughly,  we  may  call  any  persistent  social 
group,  other  than  the  family,  existing  within  a  larger 
group,  a  class.  And  every  society,  except  possibly  the 
most  primitive,  is  more  or  less  distinctly  composed  of 
classes.  Even  in  savage  tribes  there  are,  besides  families 
and  clans,  almost  always  other  associations:  of  warriors, 
of  magicians  and  so  on;  and  these  continue  throughout 
all  phases  of  development  until  we  reach  the  intricate  group 
structure  of  our  own  time.  Individuals  never  achieve  their 
life  in  separation,  but  always  in  cooperation  with  a  group 
of  other  minds,  and  in  proportion  as  these  cooperating 
groups  stand  out  from  one  another  with  some  distinct- 
ness they  constitute  social  classes. 

We  may  say  of  this  differentiation,  speaking  generally, 
that  it  is  useful.  The  various  functions  of  life  require 
special  influences  and  organization,  and  without  some 
class  spirit,  some  speciality  in  traditions  and  standards, 
nothing  is  we-l  performed.  Thus,  if  our  physicians  were 
not,  as  regards  their  professional  activities,  something 
of  a  psychological  unit,  building  up  knowledge  and  senti- 

209 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

ment  by  communication,  desiring  the  approval  and  dread- 
ing the  censure  of  their  colleagues,  it  would  be  worse  not 
only  for  them  but  for  the  rest  of  us.  There  are  no  doubt 
class  divisions  that  are  useless  or  harmful,  but  something 
of  this  nature  there  should  be,  and  I  have  already  tried  to 
show  that  our  own  society  suffers  considerably  from  a  lack 
of  adequate  group  differentiation  in  its  higher  mental 
activities. 

Fundamental  to  all  study  of  classes  are  the  two  principles, 
of  inheritance  and  of  competition,  according  to  which 
their  membership  is  determined.  The  rule  of  descent,  as 
in  the  hereditary  nobility  of  England  or  Germany,  gives  a 
fixed  system,  the  alternative  to  which  is  some  kind  of  se- 
lection— by  election  or  appointment  as  in  our  politics;  by 
purchase,  as  formerly  in  the  British  army  and  navy;  or 
by  the  informal  action  of  preference,  opportunity  and  en- 
deavor, as  in  the  case  of  most  trades  and  professions  at  the 
present  day. 

Evidently  these  two  principles  are  very  much  inter- 
mingled in  their  working.  The  hereditary  distinctions 
must  have  a  beginning  in  some  sort  of  selective  struggle, 
such  as  the  military  and  commercial  competition  from 
which  privileged  families  have  emerged  in  the  past,  and 
never  become  so  rigid  as  not  to  be  modified  by  similar 
processes.  On  the  other  hand,  inherited  advantages,  even 
in  the  freest  society,  enter  powerfully  into  every  kind  of 
competition. 

Another  consideration  of  much  interest  is  that  the  strict 
rule  of  descent  is  a  biological  principle,  making  the  social 
organization  subordinate  to  physical  continuity  of  life, 

210 


THE  HEREDITARY  OR  CASTE  PRINCIPLE 

while  selection  or  competition  brings  in  psychical  elements, 
of  the  most  various  qualities  to  be  sure,  but  capable  at  the 
best  of  forming  society  on  a  truly  rational  method. 

Finally  it  is  well  to  recognize  that  there  is  a  vast  sum 
of  influences  governed  by  no  ascertainable  principle  at 
all,  which  go  to  assign  the  individual  his  place  in  the  class 
system.  After  allowing  for  inheritance  and  for  everything 
which  can  fairly  be  called  selection  (that  is,  for  all  definite 
and  orderly  interaction  between  the  man  and  the  system), 
there  remains  a  large  part  which  can  be  assigned  only 
to  chance.  This  is  particularly  true  in  the  somewhat 
tumultuous  changes  of  modern  life. 

When  a  class  is  somewhat  strictly  hereditary,  we  may 
call  it  a  caste — a  name  originally  applied  to  the  hereditary 
classes  of  India,  but  to  which  it  is  common,  and  certainly 
convenient,  to  give  a  wider  meaning. 

Perhaps  the  best  way  to  understand  caste  is  to  open  our 
eyes  and  note  those  forces  at  work  among  ourselves  which 
might  conceivably  give  rise  to  it. 

On  every  side  we  may  see  that  differences  arise,  and 
that  these  tend  to  be  perpetuated  through  inherited  asso- 
ciations, opportunities  and  culture.  The  endeavor  to 
secure  for  one's  children  whatever  desirable  thing  one  has 
gained  for  oneself  is  a  perennial  source  of  caste,  and  this, 
endeavor  flows  from  human  nature  and  the  moral  unityj 
of  the  family.  If  a  man  has  been  able  to  save  money, 
he  anxiously  invests  it  to  yield  an  income  after  his  death; 
if  he  has  built  up  a  business,  it  is  his  hope  that  his  children 
may  succeed  him  in  it;  if  he  has  a  good  handicraft,  he 
wishes  his  boys  to  learn  it.     And  so  with  less  tangible 

211 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

goods — education,  culture,  religious  and  moral  ideas — ' 
there  is  no  good  parent  but  desires  his  children  to  have 
more  than  the  common  inheritance  of  what  is  best  in  these 
things.  It  is,  perhaps,  safe  to  say  that  if  the  good  of  his 
children  could  be  set  on  one  side  and  the  good  of  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  over  against  it  on  the  other,  the  average  parent 
would  desire  that  evil  might  befall  the  latter  rather  than 
the  former.  And  much  of  the  wider  social  spirit  of  recent 
times  comes  from  the  belief  that  we  cannot  make  this  sepa- 
ration, and  that  to  secure  the  real  good  of  our  children  we 
must  work  for  the  common  advancement. 

That  this  endeavor  to  secure  a  succession  in  desirable 
function  is  not  confined  to  the  rich  we  may  see,  for  instance, 
in  the  fact  that  labor  unions  often  have  regulations  tend- 
ing to  secure  to  the  children  of  members  a  complete  or  par- 
tial monopoly  of  the  opportunities  of  apprenticeship.  In 
Chicago,  not  long  since,  only  the  son  of  a  plumber  could 
learn  the  plumber's  trade. 

As  being  the  actual  possessor  of  the  advantages  in  ques- 
tion, the  parent  is  usually  in  a  position  either  to  hand 
them  over  directly  to  his  children,  or  to  make  their  acqui- 
sition comparatively  easy.  Wealth,  the  most  obvious 
and  tangible  source  of  caste,  is  transmissible,  even  in  the 
freest  societies,  under  the  sanction  and  protection  of  law. 
And  wealth  is  convertible  not  only  into  material  goods 
but,  if  the  holder  has  a  little  tact  and  sense,  into  other 
and  finer  advantages — educational  opportunities,  business 
and  professional  openings,  travel  and  intercourse  with 
people  of  refinement  and  culture.  Against  this  we  must, 
of  course,  offset  the  diminished  motive  to  exertion,  the 
lack  of  rough-and-tumble   experience,   and   other  disad- 

212 


THE  HEREDITARY  OR  CASTE  PRINCIPLE 

vantages  which  inherited  wealth,  especially  if  large,  is 
apt  to  bring  with  it;  but  that  it  does,  as  a  rule,  perpetuate 
the  more  conventional  sorts  of  superiority  is  undeniable. 

And  such  intangible  advantages  as  culture,  manners, 
good  associations  and  the  like,  whether  associated  with 
wealth  or  not,  are  practically  heritable,  since  they  are 
chiefly  derived  by  children  from  a  social  environment  de- 
termined by  the  personality  and  standing  of  their  parents. 

Indeed,  irrespective  of  any  intention  toward  or  from 
inheritance,  there  is  a  strong  drift  toward  it  due  to  mere 
familiarity.  It  is  commonly  the  line  of  least  resistance. 
The  father  knows  much  about  his  own  trade  and  those 
closely  related  to  it,  litde  about  others;  and  the  son  shares 
his  point  of  view.  So  when  the  latter  comes  to  fix  upon  a 
career  he  is  likely,  in  the  absence  of  any  decided  individu- 
ality of  preference,  to  take  the  way  that  lies  most  open  to 
him.  Of  course  he  may  lack  the  ability  to  carry  the  pa- 
ternal function;  but  this,  though  common  enough,  does 
not  affect  the  majority  of  cases.  The  functions  that  re- 
quire a  peculiar  type  of  natural  ability,  while  of  the  first 
importance,  since  they  include  all  marked  originality, 
are  not  very  numerous,  sound  character  and  training, 
with  fair  intelligence,  being  ordinarily  sufficient.  Even  in 
the  learned  professions,  such  as  law,  medicine,  teaching 
and  the  ministry,  the  great  majority  of  practitioners  hold 
their  own  by  common  sense  and  assiduity  rather  than  by 
special  aptitude.  To  the  best  of  my  observation,  there  are 
many  men  serving  as  foremen  in  various  sorts  of  handi- 
craft, or  as  farmers,  who  have  natural  capacity  adequate 
for  success  in  law,  commerce  or  politics.  A  man  of  good, 
all-round  ability  will  succeed  in  that  line  of  work  which 

213 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

he  finds  ready  to  his  hand,  but  only  a  few  will  break 
away  from  their  antecedents  and  seek  a  wholly  different 
line.  And  if  their  work  affords  them  health,  thought  and 
mastery,  why  should  they  wish  to  change  it  if  they  could  ? 

I  would  not  have  it  supposed,  however  (because  I  dwell 
thus  upon  opportunity),  that  I  agree  with  those  whose 
zeal  for  education  and  training  leads  them  to  depreciate 
natural  differences.  I  do  not  know  how  to  talk  with  men 
who  believe  in  native  equality:  it  seems  to  me  that  they 
lack  common  sense  and  observation.  How  can  they  fail 
to  see  that  children  in  the  same  family,  even  twins,  as 
Mr.  Galton  has  shown,*  are  often  widely  divergent  in 
ability,  one  destined  to  leadership  and  another  to  obscurity  ? 

The  two  variables  of  personality,  "  nature  and  nurture," 
are  without  doubt  of  equal  diversity  and  importance,  and 
they  must  work  together  to  bring  about  any  notable 
achievement.  Natural  ability  is  essential;  but,  no  matter 
how  great,  it  cannot  know  or  develop  its  power  without 
opportunity.  Indeed,  great  natural  faculty  is  often  more 
dependent  on  circumstance  than  is  mediocrity — because 
of  some  trait,  like  extreme  sensitiveness,  that  unfits  it  for 
miscellaneous  competition.  Opportunity,  moreover,  means 
different  things  in  different  cases,  and  is  not  to  be  identified 
with  wealth  or  facile  circumstances  of  any  sort.  Some 
degrees  and  kinds  of  difficulty  are  helpful,  others  not. 

And  yet,  leaving  out,  on  the  one  hand,  unusual  talent 
or  energy,  and,  on  the  other,  decided  weakness  or  dulness, 
the  mass  of  men  are  guided  chiefly  by  early  surroundings 
and  training,  which  determine  for  them,  in  a  general  way, 

*  See  the  memoir  on  the  subject  in  his  Inquiries  into  Human 
Faculty. 

214 


THE  HEREDITARY  OR  CASTE  PRINCIPLE 

what  sort  of  life  they  will  take  up,  and  contribute  much  to 
their  success  or  failure  in  it.  Society,  even  in  a  com- 
paratively free  country,  is  thus  vaguely  divided  into  hered- 
itary strata  or  sections,  from  which  the  maioritv  do  not 
depart. 

If  the  transmission  of  function  from  father  to  son  has 
become  established,  a  caste  spirit,  a  sentiment  in  favor) 
of  such  transmission  and  opposed  to  the  passage  from  one 
class  into  another,  may  arise  and  be  shared  even  by  the 
unprivileged  classes.  The  individual  then  thinks  of  him- 
self and  his  family  as  identified  with  his  caste,  and  sympa- 
thizes with  others  who  have  the  same  feeling.  The  caste 
thus  becomes  a  psychical  organism,  consolidated  by  com- 
munity of  sentiment  and  tradition.  In  some  measure 
the  ruling  class  in  England,  for  example,  has  hung  to- 
gether in  this  way,  and  the  same  is  partly  true  of  the  lower 
orders.  No  doubt  there  is  generally  some  protest  against 
a  hereditary  system  on  the  part  of  restless  members  of  the 
lower  castes — certainly  this  was  always  the  case  in  Europe 
— but  it  may  be  practically  insignificant. 

And  out  of  caste  sentiment  arise  institutions,  social, 
political  and  economic — like  the  mediaeval  system  in  Eu- 
rope, much  of  which  still  survives — whose  tendency  is  to 
define  and  perpetuate  hereditary  distinctions. 

CI  have,  perhaps,  said  enough  to  make  it  clear  that  an 
pulse  toward  caste  is  found  in  human  nature  itself. 
Whether  it  spreads  through  and  dominates  the  system  of 
life,  as  in  India,  or  remains  subordinate,  as  with  us,  de- 
pends upon  the  strength  or  weakness  of  other  impulses 
which  limit  its  operation.     As  certain  types  of  vegetation, 

215 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

like  the  ferns,  which  at  one  time  were  dominant  in  the 
forests,  are  now  overshadowed  by  plants  of  higher  organ- 
ization, so  caste,  which  we  must,  on  the  whole,  reckon 
to  be  an  inferior  principle,  tends  to  be  supplanted  by 
something  freer  and  more  rational. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

CONDITIONS  FAVORING  OR  OPPOSING  THE  GROWTH 
OF  CASTE 

Three  Conditions  Affecting  the  Increase  or  Diminution  of 
Caste — Race  Caste — Immigration  and  Conquest — Grad- 
ual Differentiation  of  Functions;  Medieval  Caste; 
India — Influence  of  Settled  Conditions — Influence  •  of 
the  State  of  Communication  and  Enlightenment — Con- 
clusion. 

There  seem  to  be  three  conditions  which,  chiefly,  make 
for  the  increase  or  diminution  of  the  caste  principle. 
These  are,  first,  Hkeness  or  unlikeness  in  the  constituents 
of  the  population;  second,  the  rate  of  social  change 
(whether  we  have  to  do  with  a  settled  or  a  shifting  system), 

Land,  finally,  the  state  of  communication  and  enlighten- 
ment. Unlikeness  in  the  constituents,  a  settled  system 
and  a  low  state  of  communication  and  enlightenment 
favor  the  growth  of  caste,  and  vice  versa.  The  first  pro- 
vides natural  lines  of  cleavage  and  so  makes  it  easier  to 
split  into  hereditary  groups;  the  second  gives  inheritance 
time  to  consolidate  its  power,  while  the  third  means  the 
absence  of  those  conscious  and  rational  forces  which  are 
its  chief  rivals. 

The  most  important  sorts  of  unlikeness  in  the  constitu- 
ents of  the  population  are  perhaps  three:   differences  in 

217 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

race;  differences,  apart  from  race,  due  to  immigration  oi 
conquest,  and  unlikeness  due  to  the  gradual  differentiation 
of  social  functions  within  a  population  originally  homo- 
geneous. 

Two  races  of  different  temperament  and  capacity, 
distinct  to  the  eye  and  Hving  side  by  side  in  the  same  com- 
munity, tend  strongly  to  become  castes,  no  matter  how 
equal  the  social  system  may  otherwise  be.  The  difference, 
as  being  hereditary,  answers  in  its  nature  to  the  idea  of 
caste,  and  the  external  sign  serves  to  make  it  conscious  and 
definite. 

The  race  caste  existing  in  the  Southern  United  States 
illustrates  the  impotence  of  democratic  traditions  to  over- 
come the  caste  spirit  when  fostered  by  obvious  physical 
and  psychical  differences.  This  spirit  is  immeasurably 
strong  on  the  part  of  the  whites,  and  there  is  no  apparent 
prospect  of  its  diminution. 

The  specially  caste  nature  of  the  division — as  distin- 
guished from  those  personal  differences  which  democratic 
tradition  recognizes — is  seen  in  the  feeling,  universal 
among  the  whites,  that  the  Negro  must  be  held  apart 
and  subordinate  not  merely  as  an  individual,  or  any  num- 
ber of  individuals,  but  as  a  race,  a  social  whole.  That  is, 
the  fact  that  many  individuals  of  this  race  are  equal,  and 
some  superior,  to  the  majority  of  whites  does  not,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  latter,  make  it  just  or  expedient  to  treat 
them  apart  from  the  mass  of  their  race.  To  dine  with  a 
Negro,  to  work  or  play  by  his  side,  or  to  associate  in  any 
relation  where  superiority  cannot  be  asserted,  is  held  to 
be  degrading  and  of  evil  example,  no  matter  what  kind 
of  Negro  he  may  be.     It  is  the  practice  and  policy   of 

218 


CONDITIONS  AFFECTING  THE  GROWTH  OF  CASTE 

the  dominant  race  to  impress  upon  the  Negro  that  he  be- 
longs by  birth  to  a  distinct  order  out  of  which  he  can  in  no 
way  depart.  There  or  nowhere  he  must  find  his  destiny. 
If  he  wishes  to  mingle  with  whites  it  must  be  as  an  acknowl- 
edged inferior.  As  a  servant  he  may  ride  in  the  same 
railway  car,  but  as  a  citizen  he  may  not  do  so. 

Thoughtful  whites  justify  this  attitude  on  the  ground, 
substantially,  that  a  race  is  an  organic  whole — bound  to- 
gether by  heredity  and  social  connection — and  that  it  is 
practically  necessary  to  recognize  this  in  dealing  with  race 
questions.  The  integrity  of  the  white  race  and  of  white 
civilization,  they  say,  requires  Negro  subordination  (sep- 
aration being  impracticable),  and  the  only  available  line 
of  distinction  is  the  definite  one  of  color.  A  division  on 
this  line  is  even  held  to  be  less  invidious — as  involving  no 
judgment  of  individuals — as  well  as  more  feasible,  than 
one  based  on  personal  traits.  Particular  persons  cannot, 
in  practice,  be  separated  from  their  families  and  other  ante- 
cedents, and  if  they  could  be  the  example  of  mixture  on 
an  equal  footing  would  be  demoralizing. 

This  argument  is  probably  sound  in  so  far  as  it  re- 
quires the  recognition  of  the  two  races  as  being,  for  some 
purposes,  distinct  organisms.     In  this  regard  it  is  per- 
haps better  sociology  than  the  view  that  every  one  should 
be  considered  solely  on  his  merits  as  an  individual. 
A      At  the  same  time  it  is  only  too  apparent  that  our  appli- 
I  cation  of  this  doctrine  is  deeply  colored  with  that  caste 
1  arrogance  which  does  not  recognize  in  the  Negro  a  spiritual 
][i  brotherhood  underlying  all  race  difference  and  possible 
^'inferiority."     The  matter  of  unequal  abiHty,  in  races 
as  in  individuals,  is  quite  distinct  from  that  sharing  in  a 

219 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

common  spirit  and  service  from  which  no  human  being 
can  rightly  or  Christianly  be  excluded.  The  idea  that  he 
is  fundamentally  a  man  like  the  rest  of  us  cannot  and 
should  not  be  kept  from  the  Negro  any  more  than  from 
other  lowly  orders  of  people.  Science,  religion  and  the 
democratic  spirit  all  give  him  a  right  to  it;  and  the  white 
man  cannot  deny  it  to  him  without  being  false  to  his  own 
best  self.  Anything  in  our  present  attitude  which  does 
deny  it  we  must  hope  to  be  transitory,  since  it  is  calcu- 
lated, in  a  modern  atmosphere,  to  generate  continuing 
disquiet  and  hatred.  It  belonged  with  slavery  and  is  in- 
congruous with  the  newer  world. 

These  may  be  subtleties,  but  subtlety  is  the  very  sub- 
stance of  the  race  question,  the  most  vital  matter  being 
not  so  much  what  is  done  as  the  spirit  in  which  it  is  done. 

The  practical  question  here  is  not  that  of  abolishing 
castes  but  of  securing  just  and  kindly  relations  between 
them,  of  reconciling  the  fact  of  caste  with  ideals  of  freedom 
and  right.  This  is  difficult  but  not  evidently  impossible, 
and  a  right  spirit,  together  with  a  government  firmly  re- 
pressive of  the  lower  passions  of  both  races,  should  go  far 
to  achieve  it.  There  seems  to  be  no  reason  in  the  nature 
of  things  why  divergent  races,  like  divergent  individuals, 
should  not  unite  in  a  common  service  of  the  ideals  to 
which  all  human  nature  bears  allegiance — I  mean  ideals 
of  kindness,  fair  play  and  so  on.  And  the  white  man,  in 
claiming  superiority,  assumes  the  chief  responsibility  for 
bringing  this  state  of  things  to  pass. 

Wlien  peoples  of  the  same  race  mingle  by  migration, 
the  effect,   as  regards  classes,  depends  chieflv  on   their 

220 


CONDITIONS  AFFECTING  THE  GROWTH  OF  CASTE 

states  of  civilization  and  the  character  of  the  migration, 
as  hostile  or  friendly.  The  peaceful  advent  of  kindred 
settlers,  like  the  English  immigrants  to  the  United  States, 
creates  no  class  divisions.  If  they  differ  in  language  and 
customs,  like  the  Germans,  or  are  extremely  poor  and  igno- 
rant, like  many  of  the  Irish,  they  are  held  apart  for  a 
time  and  looked  down  upon,  but  as  they  establish  them- 
selves and  gradually  prove  their  substantial  equality  with 
the  natives,  they  may  become  indistinguishable  from 
the  latter.  Of  recent  years,  however,  the  arrival  by 
millions  of  peoples  somewhat  more  divergent — especially 
Italians,  Slavs  and  Jews — has  introduced  distinctions 
in  which  race  as  well  as  culture  plays  an  appreciable 
part. 

Much  depends,  of  course,  upon  the  special  character 
of  the  institutions  and  traditions  that  thus  come  into 
contact.  Some  societies  are  rigid  and  repellent  in  their 
structure,  while  others,  like  the  United  States,  are 
almost  ideally  constituted  to  invite  and  hasten  assimila- 
tion. 

Conquest  has  been  one  of  the  main  sources  of  caste  the 
world  over.  The  hostile  tradition  it  leaves  may  continue 
indefinitely;  servile  functions  are  commonly  forced  upon 
the  conquered,  and  the  consciousness  of  superiority  leads 
the  conquerors  to  regard  intermarriage  as  shameful.  A 
servile  caste,  strictly  hereditary,  existed  even  among  the 
primitive  German  tribes  from  which  most  of  us  are  de- 
scended, and  intermarriage  with  freemen  was  severely 
punished.  *'The  Lombard,"  says  Mr.  Gummere,  "killed 
a  serf  who  ventured  to  marry  a  free  woman,  .  .  .  West 
Goths  and  Burgundians  scourged  and  burnt  them  both, 

221 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

while  the  Saxons  punished  an  unequal  marriage  of  any  sort 
with  death  of  man  and  wife."* 

The  unlikeness  out  of  which  caste  grows  may  not  be 
original,  as  in  the  case  of  race  difference  or  conquest,  but 
may  arise  gradually  by  the  differentiation  of  a  homoge- 
neous people.  Any  distinct  social  group,  having  its  special 
group  sympathies  and  traditions,  has  some  tendency  to 
pass  on  its  functions  and  ideas  to  the  children  of  its  mem- 
bers, promoting  association  and  intermarriage  among 
them,  and  thus  taking  on  a  caste  character. 

Accordingly,  any  increase  in  the  complexity  of  social 
functions — political,  religious,  military  or  industrial — 
such  as  necessarily  accompanies  the  enlargement  of  a 
social  system,  may  have  a  caste  tendency,  because  it 
separates  the  population  into  groups  corresponding  to 
the  several  functions;  and  this  alone  may  without  doubt 
produce  caste  if  the  conditions  are  otherwise  favorable. 

Something  of  this  sort  seems  to  have  followed  upon  the 
conquest  by  the  Germanic  tribes  of  Roman  territory,  and 
the  consequent  necessity  of  administering  a  more  complex 
system  than  their  own.  As  the  new  order  took  shape  it 
showed  a  tendency  toward  more  definite  inheritance  of 
rank  and  function  than  existed  in  the  tribal  society.  This 
was  due  partly,  no  doubt,  to  the  influence  of  Roman 
traditions,  but  the  very  nature  of  the  civilization  required 
it.  That  is,  functions  became  more  diverse  and  of  such  a 
character  as  to  separate  the  citizens  into  distinct  classes, 
the  principal  ones  being  warriors  of  various  degrees  (com- 
bining military  functions  with  the  control  of  land),  clergy, 
*  Germanic  Origins,  154 
222 


CONDITIONS  AFFECTING  THE  GROWTH  OF  CASTE 

artisans  and  peasants.  The  military  and  landholding 
class,  uniting  the  force  of  arms  with  that  of  wealth,  natu- 
rally dominated  the  others;  the  artisans,  especially  in  the 
towns,  maintained  a  free  status  which  served  later  as  the 
nucleus  of  a  democratic  tendency;  the  peasants  became 
serfs.  As  the  conditions  did  not  permit  organization  on 
any  free  or  open  principle — there  being  litde  facility  of 
travel,  diffusion  of  knowledge  or  unfixed  wealth — the 
hereditary  principle  naturally  prevailed.  Only  the  clergy, 
monopolizing  most  of  the  knowledge  and  communication 
of  the  time  and  fortified  by  celibacy  against  inheritance, 
maintained  a  comparatively  open  organization.  It  is 
well  known  that  lands,  and  the  local  rule  that  went  with 
them,  held  at  first  as  a  personal  trust,  gradually  became 
a  family  property,  and  we  are  told  that  when  the  Emperor 
Conrad,  in  1037,  issued  his  edict  making  fiefs  hereditary 
in  Italy,  he  only  did  for  the  south  "by  a  single  stroke 
what  gradual  custom  and  policy  had  slowly  procured  for 
the  north.*'*  Offices,  armorial  devices  and  other  priv- 
ileges generally  followed  the  same  course,  and  the  servile 
status  of  serfs  was  also  transmitted  to  children. 

The  feudal  system  was  based  on  inheritance  of  function, 
and  had  two  well-defined  castes,  the  knightly,  consisting 
originally  of  those  whose  ability  to  maintain  a  horse  and 
equipment  placed  them  in  the  rank  of  effective  warriors, 
and  the  servile.  Between  these  marriage  was  impossible. 
Intercourse  of  any  kind  was  scanty  and,  on  the  part  of  the 
superior  order,  contemptuous.  *'A  boy  of  knightly  birth 
was  reared  in  ceremony.  From  his  earliest  childhood 
he  learnt  to  look  upon  himself  and  his  equals  as  of  a  differ- 
*  Tout,  The  Empire  and  The  Papacy,  59. 
22.-^ 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

ent  degree  and  almost  of  a  different  nature  from  his  fellow 
creatures  who  were  not  of  gentle  condition.  Heraldic 
pride  and  the  distinction  of  degree  were  among  his  first 
impressions."  *  Socially  and  psychologically  the  mediaeval 
nobility  lived  in  their  caste,  not  in  the  world  at  large.  It 
was  the  sphere  of  the  social  self;  the  knight  looked  to 
it  and  not  to  a  general  public  for  sympathy  and  recog- 
nition :  he  was  far  closer  in  spirit  to  the  chivalry  of  hostile 
nations  than  to  the  commons  of  his  own.  But  the  plain 
people  were  out  of  all  this,  and  were  regarded  with  a  con- 
tempt at  least  as  great  as  that  felt  in  our  day  for  the  Negro 
at  the  South.  The  whole  institution  of  chivalry,  with  its 
attendant  ideas,  ideals  and  literature,  was  a  thing  of  caste 
which  recognized  no  common  humanity  in  the  lower  orders 
of  society,  and  whatever  it  did  for  the  world  in  the  way  of 
developing  the  knightly  ideal  of  valor,  devotion  and  cour- 
tesy— an  ideal  later  transformed  into  that  of  the  gentle- 
man and  now  coming  to  pervade  all  classes — was  a  product 
of  caste  spirit. 

The  feudal  courts,  large  and  small,  the  tournaments, 
festivals  and  military  expeditions,  including  the  cru- 
sades, were  facilities  of  communication  through  which 
this  caste,  not  only  in  single  countries  but  throughout 
Europe,  was  enabled  to  have  a  common  thought  and 
sentiment. 

Without  doubt,  however,  the  lower  caste  had  also  its 
unity  and  organization,  its  group  traditions,  customs  and 
standards;  mostly  lost  to  us  because  they  never  achieved 
a  literary  record.  This  was  an  inarticulate  caste;  but  it 
is  probable  that  village  communities  were  the  spheres  of  a 
*  Cornish,  Chivalry,  183. 
224 


CONDITIONS  AFFECTING  THE  GROWTH  OF  CASTE 

vigorous  cooperative  life  in  which  the  best  traits  of  human 
nature  were  fostered. 

In  India  also  the  elaborate  caste  systems,  although  due 
in  part  to  conquest,  seem  also  to  have  come  about  by 
the  hardening  of  occupation-classes.  The  priests,  pow- 
erful because  of  their  supposed  intercourse  with  super- 
human powers,  taught  their  mystic  traditions  to  their 
children  and  so  built  up  a  hereditary  corporation,  known, 
finally,  as  the  Brahman  caste.  The  military  caste  was 
apparently  formed  in  a  similar  manner,  while  in  industry 
"veneration  for  parental  example  and  the  need  of  an  ex- 
act transmission  of  methods "  *  rendered  all  employ- 
ments hereditary.  In  fact,  says  one  writer,  the  caste 
system  was  in  its  origin  "simply  an  instinctive  effort  for 
the  organization  of  labor."  f  In  the  case  of  so  intricate  a 
caste  society  as  that  of  India  much  may  also  be  ascribed 
to  the  reaction  of  the  theory  upon  the  system.  \Vhen  the 
idea  that  caste  is  natural  had  become  prevalent  and  sancti- 
fied, it  tended  to  create  caste  where  it  would  not  otherwise 
have  existed. 

/  A  settled  state  of  society  is  favorable,  and  change 
hostile,  to  the  growth  of  caste,  because  it  is  necessary 
that  functions  should  be  continuous  through  several  gen- 
erations before  the  principle  of  inheritance  can  become 
fixed.  Whatever  breaks  up  existing  customs  and  tra- 
ditions tends  to  abolish  hereditary  privilege  and  throw 
men  into  a  rough  struggle,  out  of  which  strong,  coarse 
natures  emerge  as  victors,  to  found,  perhaps,  a  new  aristoc- 
racy. Thus  the  conquest  of  southern  Europe  by  northern 
*  Samuel  Johnson,  Oriental  Religions,  India,  241.  f  Ibid. 

225 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

tribes  led  to  a  period  of  somewhat  confused  readjustment, 
in  which  men  of  natural  power  bettered  their  status. 
The  classes  which  emerged  were  as  much  the  result  of 
competition  as  derived  by  inheritance  from  those  of  tribal 
society.  And  so  the  openness  of  classes  in  our  own  day 
maij  be  due  as  much  to  confusion  as  to  a  permanent  de- 
chne  in  the  caste  principle. 

That  a  low  state  of  communication  and  of  enlighten- 
ment are  favorable  to  caste,  while  intelligence — especially 
political  intelligence — and  facility  of  intercourse  antag- 
onize it,  becomes  evident  when  we  consider  what,  psy- 
chologically speaking,  caste  is.  It  is  an  organization  of 
the  social  mind  on  a  biological  principle.  TJiat  functions 
should  follow  the  line  of  descent  instead  of  adjusting  them- 
selves to  individual  capacity  and  preference,  evidently 
means  the  subordination  of  reason  to  convenience,  of 
freedom  to  order.  The  ideal  principle  is  not  biological 
but  moral,  based,  that  is,  on  the  spiritual  gifts  of  indi- 
viduals without  regard  to  descent.  Caste,  then,  is  some- 
thing which,  we  may  assume,  will  give  way  to  this  higher 
principle  whenever  the  conditions  are  such  as  to  permit 
the  latter  to  work  successfully;  and  this  will  be  the  case 
when  the  population  is  so  mobilized  by  free  training  and 
institutions  that  just  and  orderly  selection  is  practicable. 

The  diffusion  of  intelligence,  rapid  communication,  the 
mobilization  of  wealth  by  means  of  money,  and  the  like, 
mark  the  ascendency  of  the  human  mind  over  material 
and  biological  conditions.  Popular  government  becomes 
possible,  commercial  and  industrial  functions — other 
things  equal — come  under  more  open  competition,  and 

226 


CONDITIONS  AFFECTING  THE  GROWTH  OF  CASTE 

jfree  personal  development  of  all  sorts  is  fostered.  The 
igeneral  sentiment  also,  perceiving  the  superiority  of  free 
forganization  to  caste,  becomes  definitely  hostile  to  the 
jl  latter  and  antagonizes  it  by  public  educational  and  other 
opportunities.  The  most  effective  agent  in  keeping  classes 
comparatively  open  is  an  adequate  system  of  free  training 
for  the  young,  tending  to  make  all  careers  accessible  to 
those  who  are  naturally  fit  for  them.  In  so  far  as  there 
is  such  a  system  early  education  becomes  a  process  of  selec- 
tion and  discipline  which  permits  ability  to  serve  its  pos- 
sessor and  the  world  in  its  proper  place.  In  our  own  so- 
ciety— we  may  note  in  passing — this  calls  for  a  great  de- 
velopment of  public  education,  especially  in  the  way  of 
trade  schools  and  the  like,  and  also  for  an  effective  cam- 
paign against  child-labor,  bad  housing  and  whatever  else 
shuts  off  opportunity. 

But  before  this  mobility  is  achieved,  caste  is  perhaps  the 
only  possible  basis  for  an  elaborate  social  structure;  the 
main  flow  of  thought  is  then  necessarily  in  local  channels. 
The  people  cannot  grasp  the  life  of  which  they  are  a  part 
in  any  large  way,  or  have  a  free  and  responsible  share  in  it, 
but  are  somewhat  mechanically  held  in  place  by  habit  and 
tradition.  Those  special  relations  to  the  system  of  govern- 
ment, religion  or  industry  which  are  implied  in  classes, 
since  they  cannot  be  determined  by  rational  selection, 
must  be  fixed  in  some  traditional  way,  and  the  most 
available  is  the  inheritance  of  functions. 

We  may  expect,  then,  that  complex,  stationary  societies 
of  low  mental  organization  will  tend  toward  caste.  That 
this  is  true,  in  a  general  way,  is  shown  by  the  prevalence  of 

227 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

caste  in  Oriental  nations  to-day,  and  in  the  later  history 
of  the  great  empires  of  antiquity.  It  goes  without  saying 
that  each  society  has  its  peculiarities  which  only  special 
study  could  elucidate 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  OUTLOOK  REGARDING  CASTE 

The  Question — How  Far  the  Inheritance  Principle  Actually 
Prevails — Influences  Favoring  Its  Growth — Those  An- 
tagonizing It — The  Principles  of  Inheritance  and  Equal 
Opportunity  as  Affecting  Social  Efficiency — Conclusion. 

A  VERY  pertinent  question  is  that  of  the  part  which  the 
hereditary  or  caste  principle  is  Hkely  to  play  in  the  coming 
life;  whether  it  is  probable  that  caste,  other  than  that  due 
to  race,  will  arise  in  modern  society;  or  that  the  hereditary 
principle  will,  to  any  degree,  have  increased  ascendency. 

The  answer  should  probably  be  that  the  principle  is  al- 
ways powerful,  and  may  gjain  somewhat  as  conditions  be- 
come more  setded,  but  certainly  can  never  produce  true 
caste  in  the  modern  world. 

As  regards  the  power,  in  general,  of  the  inheritance 
tendency,  I  have  perhaps  said  enough  already.  The  in- 
heritance of  property,  notwithstanding  the  perennial 
agitation  of  communism,  is  probably  as  secure  as  any 
^  ^  institution  can  be — because  there  is  apparently  nothing 
practicable  to  take  its  place  as  a  means  to  economic  sta- 
bility. And  with  inheritance  of  property  goes,  in  all 
prosperous  countries,  a  class  of  people  who  come  without 
effort  into  wealth  and  all  its  advantages:  their  number 
and  riches  are  certainly  on  the  rapid  increase.  The  less 
formal  inheritance  of  culture,  opportunity  and  position  is 
equally  real. 

229 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

As  to  occupation,  even  now  a  census  would  perhaps 
show  that  the  majority  of  young  men  follow  that  of  their 
father,  or  one  cognate  to  it.  Most  farmers'  sons  probably 
remain  farmers  (in  spite  of  the  well-known  drift  to  the 
towns),  most  mechanics'  sons  become  mechanics,  and  a 
large  proportion  of  the  children  of  professional  men  enter 
the  professions.  The  child  of  a  well-to-do  parent  is 
given,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  education,  often  long  and 
expensive,  which  is  required  for  entrance  upon  a  profession,  V 
and  is  coming  to  be  necessary  also  for  commerce.  Not 
only  this,  but  he  is  made  to  feel  from  childhood  that  success 
in  achieving  a  professional  or  business  position  is  expected 
of  him;  he  mttst  get  it  or  lose  the  respect  of  his  family 
and  friends.  In  the  majority  of  cases — though  the  mi- 
nority on  the  other  side  is  no  small  one — these  oppor- 
tunities and  incitements,  together  with  the  power  to  wait 
and  choose  which  judicious  paternal  support  gives  him, 
are  effective  in  drawing  out  his  energies  and  directing  them 
continuously  upon  the  desired  point.  Certainly  they  will 
not  make  a  good  lawyer  or  a  captain  of  industry  out 
of  a  fool,  nor  will  the  lack  of  them  keep  decisive 
natural  ability  from  exercising  these  functions;  but  with 
the  common  run  of  men,  having  fair  capacity  not 
very  definitely  inclined  in  a  special  direction,  they  are 
potent.  Paternal  suggestion  and  backing  must  be  used 
with  great  discretion  and  often  fail  entirely,  but  no 
man  of  the  world,  so  far  as  I  know,  regards  them  as 
unimportant. 

If  we  ask  whether  the  influence  of  inheritance  is  likely 
to  increase  or  diminish,  we  find,  on  studying  the  situation 

230 


THE  OUTLOOK  REGARDING  CASTE 

as  a  whole,  a  conflict  of  tendencies  the  precise  outcome  of 
which  can  only  be  guessed  at. 

As  favoring  the  growth  of  the  principle  and  the  crystal- 
lization of  classes,  we  have  chiefly  two  considerations* 
the  probability  of  more  settled  conditions,  and  the  in- 
fluence of  that  sharper  differentiation  of  functions  which 
modern  life  involves. 

Social  change,  as  already  pointed  out,  is  a  main  force 
in  breaking  up  the  inheritance  of  function,  and  to  this 
must  largely  be  attributed  the  comparative  weakness  of 
the  principle  in  the  United  States.  The  changes  inci- 
dent to  the  setdement  of  a  new  country,  coinciding  with 
those  incident  to  an  economic  revolution,  have  set  every- 
thing afloat  and  brought  in  a  somewhat  confused  and  dis- 
orderly sort  of  competition.  Our  cities,  especially,  are 
aggregates  of  immigrants,  most  of  whom  have  broken 
away  from  early  associations,  and  a  large  part  of  whom 
are  performing  functions  unheard  of  by  their  fathers.  It 
is  hardly  possible  that  trades  should  become  hereditary 
when  most  of  them  endure  less  than  one  man's  lifetime. 
And  something  of  the  same  uncertainty  runs  through  com- 
merce and  the  professions. 

Without  predicting  any  great  decline  in  the  pace  of  in- 
vention, we  may  yet  expect  that  the  next  fifty  years  will 
see  a  great  deal  of  the  consolidation  that  comes  with  ma- 
turity. The  population  will  be  comparatively  estabhshed, 
in  place  at  least,  and  the  forces  making  for  inheritance 
will  have  a  chance  to  work.  An  immense  body  of  trans- 
mitted wealth  will  exist,  and  democratic  influences  will 
have  all  they  can  do  to  keep  it  from  generating  an  aristo- 
cratic spirit.     Industries,  professions  and  trades  can  hardly 

231 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

fail  to  be  more  stable  than  they  have  been,  and  the  rural 
population,  as  always,  will  be  a  stronghold  of  the  forces 
that  favor  inheritance. 

The  sentiment  of  regard  for  ancestry,  of  which  caste 
is  the  extreme  expression,  is  likely  to  increase  in  this  and 
in  all  new  countries.  As  communities  grow  older  the  fam- 
ily line  comes  more  and  more  under  public  observation. 
It  is  seen,  and  displayed  in  memory,  wherever  any  sort 
of  continuity  is  preserved,  and,  being  seen,  it  is  judged,  and 
the  individual  shares  the  credit  or  discredit  of  his  kin. 
While  this  influence  is  now  weak  in  the  United  States, 
on  the  whole,  and  is  almost  absent  in  the  recent  and  con- 
fused life  of  our  cities,  it  is  gaining  rapidly  wherever — as 
is  generally  the  case  in  the  East  and  Southeast  outside  of 
large  towns — the  conditions  are  settled  enough  to  make 
the  family  as  a  whole  a  matter  of  observation.  And  there 
can  be  little  doubt  that  it  is  increasing  in  the  West  wherever 
it  has  a  similar  chance. 

In  some  ways  this  greater  recognition  of  descent  is 
wholesome.  A  sense  of  being  part  of  a  kindred,  of  bear- 
ing the  honor  of  a  continuing  group  as  well  as  of  a  perish- 
ing individual,  tends  to  make  one  a  better  man;  and  from 
this  point  of  view  our  somewhat  disintegrated  society 
might  well  have  more  of  it. 

As  to  the  sharper  differentiation  that  goes  with  modern 
life,  we  see  it  on  all  hands.  The  city  is  more  clearly  marked 
off  from  the  country,  in  its  functions,  and  is  itself  broken 
up  into  quarters  the  inhabitants  of  which  have  often  little 
or  no  intercourse  with  those  of  other  quarters.  Trades 
and  professions  subdivide  into  specialties,  and,  a  more 
elaborate  training  being  demanded,  it  is  more  necessary 

232 


THE  OUTLOOK  REGARDING  CASTE 

than  formerly  that  a  man  should  know  from  the  start 
what  he  wants  to  do  and  assiduously  prepare  himself  to 
do  it.  Not  forgetting  that  there  is  another  side  tc  mis, 
a  side  of  unification  implied  in  these  differences,  one  may 
yet  say  that  in  themselves  they  tend  to  separate  people 
more  sharply  into  social  groups  which  might  conceivably 
become  hereditary. 

The  forces  antagonizing  inheritance  of  function  come 
chiefly  under  two  heads,  the  opposition  of  ambitious 
young  men  and  the  general  current  of  democratic  senti- 
ment. 

Caste  means  restriction  of  opportunity,  and  conse- 
quently lies  across  the  path  of  the  most  energetic  part  of 
the  people.  Its  rule  can  prevail  only  where  individual 
self-assertion  is  restrained  by  ignorance  and  formal  in- 
stitutions. Under  our  flexible  modern  conditions,  it  is 
safe  to  say,  no  system  can  endure  that  does  not  make  a 
point  of  propitiating  the  formidable  ambition  of  youth 
by  at  least  an  apparent  freedom  of  opportunity.  Even 
the  inheritance  of  property  is  constantly  questioned  in 
the  minds  of  the  young,  and  nothing  but  the  lack  of  a 
plausible  alternative  prevents  its  being  more  seriously 
assailed.  And  since  this  stronghold  of  inequality  can 
hardly  be  shaken,  there  is  all  the  more  demand  that  it  be 
offset  by  opening  every  other  kind  of  advantage,  especially 
in  the  way  of  education  and  training,  to  whomsoever  may 
be  fit  to  profit  by  it. 

Somewhat  vaguer  but  perhaps  even  more  effective  than 
the  resistance  of  young  men  is  the  opposition  of  the  gen- 
eral current  of  sentiment  to  any  growth  of  inheritance  at 

233 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

the  expense  of  opportunity.  To  abolish  extrinsic  in- 
equalities and  give  each  a  chance  to  serve  all  in  his  own  fit 
way,  is  undoubtedly  the  democratic  ideal.  In  politics 
this  is  expressed  by  doing  away  with  hereditary  privilege 
and  basing  everything  on  popular  suffrage;  in  education  it 
is  seeking  an  expression  quite  as  vital  by  striving  to  open 
to  every  one  the  training  to  any  function  for  which  he  may 
show  fitness.  But  the  spirit  of  unity  and  brotherhood  is 
far  from  satisfied  with  what  has  been  achieved  in  these 
directions,  and  aspires  to  bring  home  to  every  child  that 
fair  access  to  the  fruits  of  progress  which,  in  spite  of  theo- 
retical liberty,  is  now  widely  lacking.  It  calls  for  social 
democracy,  the  real  presence  of  freedom  and  justice  in 
every  fibre  of  the  social  fabric.  To  this  spirit  any  increase 
of  the  privileges,  already  unavoidably  great,  which  come 
by  inheritance,  is  evidently  hateful. 

In  America  at  least  this  sentiment  is  not  that  of  a  strug- 
gling lower  class  but  of,  practically,  the  whole  community. 
With  reference  to  so  vital  a  part  of  our  traditional  ideal 
there  are  no  classes;  all  the  people  feel  substantially  alike; 
and  there  is  no  public  purpose  for  which  wealth  is  so  freely 
spent  as  in  the  support  of  institutions  whose  purpose  is  to 
keep  open  the  path  of  opportunity  from  any  condition 
of  life  to  any  other. 

There  is  also,  back  of  this  sentiment,  a  belief  that  equal 
opportunity  makes  for  the  general  good,  since  that  system 
of  society  will  be  most  efficient,  other  things  equal,  in 
which  each  individual  is  required  to  prove  that  he  has 
more  fitness  than  others  for  his  special  function.  Every 
one  can  see,  at  times,  the  deteriorating  effect  of  familj 

234 


THE  OUTLOOK  REGARDING  CASTE 

influence — as  upon  business  establishments  when  a  less 
competent  son  succeeds  his  father,  or  upon  military  service, 
as  in  the  British  army  at  the  outbreak  of  the  Boer  war. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  results  of  a  confused  competi- 
tion may  be  worse  than  those  of  order,  even  if  the  latter 
rests  upon  an  artificial  principle. 

Thus  it  is  said  with  some  truth — and  this  is  perhaps  the 
most  considerable  argument  for  caste  in  modern  life — 
that  a  class  having  hereditary  wealth  and  position,  like 
the  English  aristocracy,  makes  a  permanent  channel  foi 
high  traditions  of  culture  and  public  service,  and  that  it  is 
well  to  preserve  such  traditions  even  at  the  cost  of  a  some- 
what exclusive  order  to  contain  and  cherish  them.  De 
Tocqueville,  himself  imbued  with  the  best  traditions  of 
the  old  French  aristocracy,  held  this  view,  and  ascribed 
the  lack  of  intellectual  distinction  in  the  America  of  his 
day  largely  to  the  fact  that  there  was  no  class  ''in  which 
the  taste  for  intellectual  pleasures  is  transmitted  with 
hereditary  fortune  and  leisure,  and  by  which  the  labors 
of  the  intellect  are  held  in  honor."  * 

The  answer,  of  course,  is  that  there  are  other  means 
than  caste  for  securing  the  continuity  of  special  traditions, 
and,  more  particularly,  that  voluntary  associations  are 
capable  of  supplanting  inherited  wealth  as  channels  of 
culture.  In  the  various  branches  of  science,  for  example, 
we  have  vigorous  and  continuing  groups,  with  plenty  of 
esprit  de  corps,  by  which  the  labors  of  the  intellect  are  held 
in  honor.  If  libraries,  associations  and  educational  insti- 
tutions can  do  this  for  one  phase  of  culture,  why  not  for 
others  ? 

*  Democracy  in  America,  vol.  i,  chap.  3. 

235 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

It  would  be  unfair,  however,  not  to  acknowledge  that 
great  services  are  constantly  rendered  to  society  by  persons 
whom  inherited  wealth  enables  to  devote  themselves 
earlier  and  more  independently  to  high  aims  than  would 
otherwise  be  possible.  There  is  certainly  something 
favorable  to  originality  in  an  inherited  competence,  with- 
out which  one  is  more  apt  to  be  coerced  into  seeking  a  kind 
of  success  already  in  vogue,  and  so  having  a  market  value. 
And  the  movement  to  foster  originality  by  endowments 
depending  upon  merit  rather  than  birth  will  be  most  diffi- 
cult to  make  effectual,  since  such  endowments  almost 
inevitably  fall  into  the  control  of  an  institutional  sort  of 
men  who  cannot  be  expected  to  subsidize  heresy.  Funds 
for  this  purpose  will  probably  aid  only  those  sorts  of 
originality  already  recognized,  and  in  a  manner  es- 
tablished; not  the  radical  innovations  from  which 
important  movements  usually  start.  It  is  hard  to  see 
how  they  can  do  much  outside  of  experimental  science, 
in  which  there  is  a  sort  of  conventional  test  of  origi- 
nality. 

On  the  whole,  whatever  is  good  in  the  principle  of  de- 
scent may  be  appropriated  by  a  democratic  society  with- 
out going  back  to  formal  rank  or  exclusive  opportunity. 
Freedom  offers  no  bar  to  continuity  of  function  in  the 
family,  so  long  as  efficiency  is  maintained,  but  merely 
requires  this,  like  everything  else,  to  meet  the  test  of 
service.  There  is  no  adequate  reason  why  a  hereditary 
group,  transmitting  special  culture  and  fitness,  should  not 
continue  their  functions. under  a  democratic  system — as 
is  actually  the  case  to  a  certain  extent  with  the  political 
families  of  England.     They  will  do  their  work  all   the 

236 


THE  OUTLOOK  REGARDING  CASTE 

better  for  not  being  too  sure  of  their  position.  I  see  noth- 
ing but  good  in  the  fact  that  a  military  career  has  become 
traditional  in  a  number  of  American  families  who  have 
rendered  distinguished  service  of  this  sort.  The  more 
special  family  ambitions  we  have,  of  a  noble  kind,  the  better 
for  the  country. 

No  sober  observer  will  imagine  that  the  opposing  forces 
are  to  abolish  the  power  of  inheritance;  they  merely  set 
reasonable  limits  to  its  scope.  When  the  way  of  ambi- 
tion is  opened  to  the  most  energetic  individuals,  the  sharp- 
est teeth  of  discontent  are  drawn,  and  the  mass  of  men 
very  willingly  avoid  trouble  to  themselves  and  to  society 
by  keeping  on  in  the  paternal  road.  The  family  is  after 
all  too  natural  and  too  convenient  a  channel  of  social  con- 
tinuity not  to  play  a  great  part  in  every  phase  of  organiza- 
tion, and  there  seems  little  reason  to  depart  from  the 
opinion  of  Comte  that  it  must  ordinarily  be  the  main  in- 
fluence in  determining  occupation. 

I  am  inclined  to  expect  that,  owing  to  somewhat  more 
settled  conditions  of  life,  inheritance  of  function  will  be 
rather  more  common,  and  the  tendency  to  see  the  individual 
as  one  of  a  stock  rather  greater,  in  the  future  than  in  the 
immediate  past.  On  the  other  hand  it  is  nearly  certain 
that  educational  opportunities  will  become  more  open  and 
varied,  making  it  easier  than  now  for  special  aptitude  to 
find  its  place.  These  things  are  not  inconsistent,  and  both 
will  make  for  order  and  contentment. 

Also  much  more  endeavor  will  be  directed  to  the  welfare 
of  the  less  privileged  classes  as  classes — that  is,  of  those 
who  are  content  to  remaiii  in  the  ancestral  status  instead 

237 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

of  trying  to  get  into  one  more  favored.  Heretofore  we 
have  given  too  much  thought,  relatively,  to  the  one  man 
who  aims  at  distinction,  and  too  little  to  the  ninety  and 
nine  who  do  not. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

OPEN  CLASSES 

The  Nature  of  Open  Classes — Whether  Class-Consciousness 
IS  Desirable — Fellowship  and  Cooperation  Deficient 
IN  Our  Society — Class  Organization  in  Relation  to 
Freedom. 

With  the  growth  of  freedom  classes  come  to  be  more 
open,  that  is,  more  based  on  individual  traits  and  less  upon 
descent  Competition  comes  actively  into  play  and  more 
or  less  efficiently  fulfils  its  function  *  of  assigning  to  each 
one  an  appropriate  place  in  the  whole.  The  theory  of 
a  free  order  is  that  every  one  is  born  to  serve  mankind  in 
a  certain  way,  that  he  finds  out  through  a  wise  system  of 
education  and  experiment  what  that  way  is,  and  is  trained 
to  enter  upon  it.  In  following  it  he  does  the  best  possible 
both  for  the  service  of  society  and  his  own  happiness. 
So  far  as  classes  exist  they  are  merely  groups  for  the  further- 
ance of  efficiency  through  cooperation,  and  their  member- 
ship is  determined  entirely  by  natural  fitness. 

This  ideal  condition  is  never  attained  on  a  large  scale. 
In  practice  the  men  who  find  work  exactly  suited  to  them 
and  at  the  same  time  acceptable  to  society  are  at  the  best 
somewhat  exceptional — though  habit  reconciles  most  of 
us — and  classes  are  never  wholly  open  or  wholly  devoted 
to  the  general  good. 

The  problem  of  finding  where  men  belong,  of  adapting 

personal  gifts  to  a  complex  system,  is  indeed  one  of  ex- 

*  I  make  frequent  use  of  this  word  to  mean  an  activity  which 
furthers  some  general  interest  of  the  social  group.  It  differs  froro 
"purpose"  in  not  necessarily  implying  intention. 

239 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

treme  difficulty,  and  is  in  no  way  solved  by  facile  schemes 
of  any  sort.  There  are,  fundamentally,  only  two  principles 
available  to  meet  it,  that  of  inheritance  or  caste  and  that  of 
competition.  AATiile  the  former  is  a  low  principle,  the 
latter  is  also,  in  many  of  its  phases,  objectionable,  involv- 
ing waste  of  energy  and  apt  to  degenerate  into  anarchy. 
There  are  always  difficulties  on  either  hand,  and  the  actual 
organization  of  life  is  ever  a  compromise  between  the  aspi- 
ration toward  freedom  and  the  convenience  of  status. 

We  may  assume,  then,  that  in  contemporary  life  we  have 
to  do  with  a  society  in  which  the  constitution  of  classes, 
so  far  as  we  have  them,  is  partly  determined  by  inheritance 
and  partly  by  a  more  or  less  open  competition,  which  is, 
again,  more  or  less  effective  in  placing  men  where  they 
rightly  belong. 

If  classes  are  open  and  men  make  their  way  from  one 
into  another,  it  is  plain  that  they  cannot  be  separate  men- 
tal wholes  as  may  be  the  case  with  castes.  The  general 
state  of  things  becomes  one  of  facile  intercourse,  and  those 
who  change  class  will  not  forget  the  ideas  and  associations 
of  youth.  Non-hereditary  classes  may  have  plenty  of 
solidarity  and  class  spirit — consider,  for  instance,  the 
mediaeval  clergy — and  their  activity  may  also  be  of  a 
special  and  remote  sort,  like  that  of  an  astronomical 
society,  but  after  all  there  will  be  something  democratic 
about  them;  they  will  share  the  general  spirit  of  the  whole 
in  which  they  are  rooted.  They  mean  only  specialization 
in  consciousness,  where  caste  means  separation. 

The  question  whether  there  is  or  ought  to  be  ''class- 
consciousness"  in  a  democratic  society  is  a  matter  of  defi- 

'^40 


OPEN  CLASSES 

nitions.  If  we  mean  a  division  of  feeling  that  goes  deeper 
than  the  sense  of  national  unity  and  separates  the  people 
into  alien  sections,  then  there  is  no  such  thing  in  the  United 
States  on  any  important  scale  (leaving  aside  the  race  ques- 
tion), and  we  may  hope  there  never  will  be.  But  if  we 
mean  that  along  with  an  underlying  unity  of  sentiment  and 
ideals  there  are  currents  of  thought  and  feeling  somewhat 
distinct  and  often  antagonistic,  the  answer  is  that  class- 
consciousness  in  this  sense  exists  and  is  more  likely  to  in- 
crease than  to  diminish.  A  country  of  newspapers,  popu- 
lar education  and  manhood  suffrage  has  passed  the  stage 
in  which  sentiments  or  interests  can  flow  in  separate  chan- 
nels; but  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  the  people  forming 
self-assertive  groups  in  reference  to  economic  and  social 
questions,  as  they  do  in  politics. 

Class-consciousness  along  these  lines  will  probably  in- 
crease with  growing  interest  in  the  underlying  contro- 
versies, but  I  do  not  anticipate  that  this  increase  will  prove 
the  dreadful  thing  which  some  imagine.  A  "class-war" 
t  would  indeed  be  a  calamity,  but  why  expect  it  ?  I  see  no 
^  reason  unless  it  be  a  guilty  conscience  or  an  unbelief  in 
moral  forces.  A  certain  sort  of  agitators  expect  and  desire 
a  violent  struggle,  because  they  see  privilege  defiant  and 
violence  seems  to  them  the  shortest  way  to  get  at  it;  and 
on  the  other  hand,  there  are  many  in  the  enjoyment  of 
privilege  who  feel  in  their  hearts  that  they  deserve  nothing 
better  than  to  have  it  taken  away  from  them:  but  these 
are  naive  views  that  ignore  the  solidity  of  the  present  order, 
which  ensures  that  any  change  must  be  gradual  and  make 
its  way  by  reason.  Orderly  struggle  is  the  time-honored 
method  of  adjusting  controversies  among  a  free  people, 

241 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

and  why  should  we  assume  that  it  will  degenerate  into 
anarchy  and  violence  at  just  this  point  ?  Will  not  feeling 
be  rather  better  than  worse  when  a  vague  sense  of  injustice 
has  had  a  chance  to  try  itself  out  in  a  definite  and  positive 
self-assertion  ? 

It  is  to  be  remembered,  moreover,  that  in  a  society 
where  groups  interlace  as  much  as  they  do  with  us  a 
conflict  of  class  interests  is,  in  great  degree,  not  a  conflict 
of  persons  but  rather  one  of  ideas  in  a  common  social 
medium — since  many  persons  belong  to  more  than  one 
class.  Only  under  conditions  of  caste  would  a  class  war 
of  the  sort  predicted  by  some  theorists  be  likely  to  come 
to  pass.  I  am  not  sure  that  it  would  be  more  fantastic  to 
expect  a  literal  war  between  Democrats  and  Republicans 
than  between  the  parties — hardly  less  united  by  common 
social  and  economic  interests — of  Labor  and  Capital. 

It  seems  equally  mistaken  to  say,  on  the  one  hand,  that 
all  class-consciousness  is  bad,  or,  on  the  other,  that  we 
ought  above  all  things  to  gird  ourselves  for  the  class- 
struggle.  The  just  view  apparently  is  that  we  should 
have  in  this  matter,  as  elsewhere,  difference  on  a  basis  of 
unity.  Class  loyalty  in  the  pursuit  of  right  ends  is  good; 
but  like  all  such  sentiments  it  should  be  subordinate  to  a 
broad  justice  and  kindness.  If  there  is  no  class-conscious- 
ness men  become  isolated,  degraded  and  ineffective;  if 
there  is  too  much,  or  the  wrong  kind,  the  group  becomes 
separate  and  forgets  the  whole.  Let  there  be  '^  diversities 
of  gifts  but  the  same  spirit." 

The  present  state  of  things  as  regards  fellowship  and 
cobperation  in  special  groups  is,  on  the  whole,  one  of  de- 

242 


OPEN  CLASSES 

ficiency  rather  than  excess.  The  confusion  or  "  Individ u- 
aHsm"  that  we  see  in  literature,  art,  religion  and  industry 
means  a  want  of  the  right  kind  of  class  unity  and  spirit. 
There  is  a  lack  of  mutual  aid  and  support  not  only  among 
hand-workers,  where  it  is  much  needed,  but  also  among 
scholars,  artists,  professional  men,  writers  and  men  of 
affairs.  The  ordinary  business  or  professional  man 
hardly  feels  himself  a  member  of  any  brotherhood  larger 
than  the  family;  with  his  wife  and  children  about  him  he 
stands  in  the  midst  of  a  somewhat  cold  and  jostling  world, 
keeping  his  feet  as  best  he  can  and  seeking  a  mechanical 
security  in  bank-account  and  life  insurance — being  less 
fortunate  in  this  regard,  perhaps,  than  the  trades-unionist, 
who  has  been  forced  by  necessity  to  stand  shoulder-to- 
shoulder  with  his  fellows  and  give  and  take  sacrifice  for 
the  common  good.  And  much  the  same  is  true  of  scholars 
and  artists:  they  are  likely  not  to  draw  close  enough  to- 
gether to  keep  one  another  warm  and  foster  the  class  ideals 
which  lead  the  individual  on  to  a  particular  kind  of  effi- 
ciency: there  is  a  lack  of  those  snug  nests  of  special  tra- 
dition and  association  in  which  more  settled  civilizations  are 
rich. 

Organization,  of  certain  kinds,  is  no  doubt  more  ex- 
tensive and  elaborate  than  ever  before,  and  organization, 
it  may  be  said,  involves  the  interdependence,  the  unity, 
of  parts.  But  will  this  be  a  conscious  and  moral  unity  ? 
In  a  high  kind  of  organization  it  will;  but  rapid  growth 
may  give  us  a  system  that  is  mechanical  rather  than,  in 
the  higher  sense,  social.  When  organization  quickly  ex- 
tends there  is  a  tendency  to  lower  its  type,  as  a  rubber 
band  becomes  thinner  the  more  you  stretch  it;    the  rela- 

243 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

tions  grow  less  human,  and  so  may  degrade  instead  of 
elevating  the  individual's  relation  to  his  whole.  In  a 
measure  this  has  taken  place  in  our  life.  The  vast  struct- 
ure of  industry  and  commerce  remains,  for  the  most  part, 
unhumanized,  and  whether  it  proves  a  real  good  or  not 
depends  upon  our  success  or  failure  in  making  it  vital, 
conscious,  moral.  There  is  union  on  a  low  plane  and 
isolation  on  a  higher.  The  progress  of  communication 
has  supplied  the  mechanical  basis  for  a  spiritual  organiza- 
tion far  beyond  anything  in  the  past;  but  this  remains  un- 
achieved. On  the  whole,  in  the  words  of  Miss  Jane 
Addams,  with  whom  this  is  a  cherished  idea,  *'  The  situation 
demands  the  consciousness  of  participation  and  well- 
being  which  comes  to  the  individual  when  he  is  able  to 
see  himself  '  in  connection  and  cooperation  with  the  whole ' ; 
it  needs  the  solace  of  collective  art  inherent  in  collective 
labor.''* 

It  is  indeed  probable  that  the  growth  of  class  fellowship 
will  help  to  foster  that  spirit  of  art  in  work  which  we  so 
notably  lack,  and  the  repose  and  content  which  this  brings. 
There  is  truth  in  the  view  that  a  confused  and  standard- 
less  competition  destroys  art,  which  requires  not  only  a 
group  ideal  but  a  certain  deliberation,  a  chance  to  brood 
over  things  and  work  perfection  into  them.  When  the 
workman  is  more  sure  of  his  position,  when  he  feels  his 
fellows  at  his  shoulder  and  knows  that  the  quality  of  his 
work  will  be  appreciated,  he  will  have  more  courage  and 
patience  to  be  an  artist.  We  all  draw  our  impulse  toward 
perfection  not  from  vulgar  opinion  or  from  our  pay,  but 
from  the  approval  of  fellow  craftsmen.  The  truth,  little 
*  Democracy  and  Social  Ethics,  219. 

244 


OPEN  CLASSES 

seen  in  our  day,  is  that  all  work  should  be  done  in  the 
spirit  of  art,  and  that  no  society  is  humanly  organized  in 
which  this  is  not  chiefly  the  case. 

It  is  also  true  that  closer  fellowship — dominated  by 
good  ideals — should  bring  the  sympathetic  and  moral 
motives  to  diligence  and  efficiency  into  more  general  action, 
and  relegate  the  ^  work  or  starve '  motive  more  to  the  back- 
ground. Some  of  us  love  our  work  and  are  eager  to  do  it 
well;  others  have  to  be  driven.  Is  this  because  the  former 
are  naturally  a  superior  sort  of  people,  because  the  work 
itself  is  essentially  more  inviting,  or  because  the  social 
conditions  are  such  that  sympathy  and  fellowship  are  more 
enlisted  with  it?  Allowing  something  for  the  first  two, 
I  suspect  the  third  is  the  principal  reason.  What  work 
is  there  that  would  not  be  pleasant  in  moderate  quantities, 
in  good  fellowship,  and  in  the  feeling  of  service?  No 
great  proportion,  I  imagine,  of  our  task.  Washing  dishes 
is  not  thought  desirable,  and  yet  men  do  it  joyfully  when 
they  go  camping  together. 

Class  organization  is  not,  as  some  people  assert,  neces- 
sarily hostile  to  freedom.  All  organization  is,  properly, 
a  means  through  which  freedom  is  sought.  As  conditions 
change,  men  are  compelled  to  find  new  forms  of  union 
through  which  to  express  themselves,  and  the  rise  of  in- 
dustrial classes  is  of  this  nature. 

In  fact,  the  question  of  freedom,  as  applied  to  class  con- 
ditions, has  two  somewhat  distinct  aspects.     These  are: 

1.  Freedom  to  rise  from  one  class  into  another,  freedom 
of  individual  opportunity,  or  carriere  ouverte  aux  talents. 
This  is  chiefly  for  the  man  of  exceptional  capacity  and  am- 

245 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

bition.  It  is  important,  but  not  more  so  than  the  other, 
namely: 

2.  Freedom  of  classes,  or,  what  is  the  same  thing,  of 
those  individuals  who  have  not  the  wish  or  power  to  de- 
part from  the  sphere  of  life  in  which  circumstance  has 
placed  them.  It  means  justice,  opportunity,  humane 
living,  for  the  less  privileged  groups  as  groups;  not  oppor- 
tunity to  get  out  of  them  but  to  be  something  in  them;  a 
chance  for  the  teamster  to  have  comfort,  culture  and  good 
surroundings  for  himself  and  his  family  without  ceasing 
to  be  a  teamster. 

The  first  of  these  has  been  much  better  understood  in 
America  than  the  second.  That  it  is  wrong  to  keep  a  man 
down  who  might  rise  is  quite  familiar,  but  that  those  who 
cannot  rise,  or  do  not  care  to,  have  also  just  claims  is  al- 
most a  novel  idea,  though  they  are  evidently  that  majority 
for  whom  our  institutions  are  supposed  to  exist.  Owing 
to  a  too  exclusive  preoccupation  with  ideals  of  enterprise 
and  ambition,  a  certain  neglect,  and  even  reproach,  have 
rested  upon  those  who  do  quietly  the  plain  work  of  life. 

Ours,  if  you  think  of  it,  is  rather  too  much  success  on 
the  tontine  plan,  where  one  puts  all  he  has  into  a  pool  in 
the  hope  of  being  one  of  a  few  survivors  to  get  what  the 
rest  lose;  it  would  be  better  to  take  to  heart  that  idea  of 
Emerson's  that  each  may  succeed  in  his  own  way,  without 
putting  others  down.  It  is  a  great  thing  that  every  Ameri- 
can boy  may  aspire  to  be  president  of  the  United  States, 
or  of  the  Standard  Oil  Company,  but  it  is  equally  im- 
portant that  he  should  have  a  chance  for  full  and  whole- 
some life  in  the  more  probable  condition  of  clerk  or  mill 
hand.    While  we  must  admire  the  heroes  of  Samuel  Smiles. 

246 


OPEN  CLASSES 

we  may  remember  that  they  do  and  should  constitute  only 
a  small  minority  of  the  human  race. 

And  the  main  guaranty  for  freedom  of  this  latter  sort 
is  some  kind  of  class  organization  which  shall  resist  the 
encroachment  and  neglect  of  which  the  weaker  parties  in 
society  are  in  constant  danger.  Those  who  have  wealth, 
position,  knowledge,  leisure,  may  perhaps  dispense  with 
formal  organization  (though  in  fact  it  is  those  who  are 
strong  already  who  most  readily  extend  their  strength  in 
this  way),  but  the  multitudes  who  have  nothing  but  their 
human  nature  to  go  upon  must  evidently  stand  together  or 
go  to  the  wall. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

HOW  FAR  WEALTH  IS  THE  BASIS  OF  OPEN  CLASSES 

Impersonal  Character  of  Open  Classes — Various  Classifi- 
cations— Classes,  as  Commonly  Understood,  Based  on 
Obvious  Distinctions — Wealth  as  Generalized  Power — 
Economic  Betterment  as  an  Ideal  of  the  Ill-Paid  Classes 
— Conclusion. 

Where  classes  do  not  mean  separate  currents  of  thought, 
as  in  the  case  of  caste,  but  are  merely  differentiations  in  a 
common  mental  whole,  there  are  likely  to  be  several  kinds 
of  classes  overlapping  one  a.iother,  so  that  men  who  fall 
in  the  same  class  from  one  point  of  view  are  separated  in 
another.  The  groups  are  like  circles  which,  instead  of 
standing  apart,  interlace  with  one  another  so  that  several 
of  them  may  pass  through  the  same  individual.  Classes 
become  numerous  and,  so  to  speak,  impersonal;  that  is, 
each  one  absorbs  only  a  part  of  the  life  of  the  individual 
and  does  not  sufficiently  dominate  him  to  mould  him  to 
a  special  type.  This  is  one  of  the  things  that  distinguish 
our  American  order  from  that,  say,  of  Germany,  w^here 
caste  is  still  so  dominant  as  to  carry  many  other  dif- 
ferences with  it  and  create  unmistakable  types  of  men. 
As  a  newspaper  writer  puts  it,  ''The  one  thing  we  may  be 
sure  of  every  day  is  that  not  a  man  whom  we  shall  meet 
in  it  will  belong  to  his  type.  The  purse-proud  aristocrat 
turns  out  to  be  a  humble-minded  young  fellow  anxiously 
envious  of  our  knowledge  of  golf;  the  comic  actor  in 
private  life  is  dull  and  shy,  and  reddens  to  the  tips  of  his 


HOW  FAR  WEALTH  IS  THE  BASIS  OF  OPEN  CLASSES 

ears  when  he  speaks;  the  murderer  taken  out  of  the  dock 
in  a  quiet  hob-and-nob  turns  out  to  be  a  likable  young 
chap  who  reminds  you  of  your  cousin  Bob." 

And  this  independence  of  particular  classes  should  give 
one  the  more  opportunity  to  achieve  a  truly  personal  indi- 
viduality by  combining  a  variety  of  class  affiliations,  each 
one  suited  to  a  particular  phase  of  his  character. 

It  is,  then,  easy  to  see  why  different  classifiers  discover 
different  class  divisions  in  our  society,  according  to  their 
points  of  view;  namely,  because  there  are  in  fact  an  in- 
definite number  of  possible  collocations.  This  would  not 
have  been  the  case  anywhere  in  the  Middle  Ages,  nor  is  it 
nearly  as  much  the  case  in  England  at  the  present  time 
as  in  the  United  States. 

We  might,  to  take  three  of  the  most  conspicuous  lines 
of  division,  classify  the  people  about  us  according  to  trade 
or  profession,  according  to  income,  and  according  to  cul- 
ture. The  first  gives  us  lawyers,  grocers,  plumbers, 
bankers  and  the  like,  and  also,  more  generally,  the  hand- 
laboring  class,  skilled  and  unskilled,  the  mercantile  class, 
the  professional  class  and  the  farming  class.  The  di- 
vision by  income  is,  of  course,  related  to  this,  though  by 
no  means  identical.  We  might  reckon  paupers,  the  poor, 
the  comfortable,  the  well-to-do  and  the  rich.  Culture  and 
refinement  have  with  us  no  very  close  or  essential  connec- 
tion with  occupation  or  wealth,  and  a  classification  based 
upon  the  former  would  show  a  very  general  rearrangement. 
There  are  many  scholars  and  philosophers  among  us  w  ho, 
like  Thoreau,  follow  humble  trades  and  live  upon  the  in- 
come of  day  labor. 

249 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

And  virtue,  the  most  important  distinction  of  all,  is  in- 
dependent alike  of  wealth,  calling  and  culture.  The  real 
upper  class,  that  which  is  doing  the  most  for  the  onward 
movement  of  human  life,  is  not  to  be  discerned  by  any  visi- 
ble sign.  The  more  inward  or  spiritual  a  trait  is,  the  less 
it  is  dependent  upon  what  are  ordinarily  understood  as 
class  distinctions. 

It  is,  however,  upon  the  grosser  and  more  obvious 
differences  of  wealth  and  rank,  and  not  upon  intellectual 
or  moral  traits,  that  classes,  in  the  ordinary  meaning  of 
the  word,  are  based.  The  reasons  for  this  are,  first,  that 
something  obvious  and  unquestionable  is  requisite  as  a 
symbol  and  unfailing  mark  of  class,  and,  second,  that  the 
tangible  distinctions  alone  are  usual  matters  of  controversy. 
Culture  and  character  have  more  intrinsic  importance,  but 
are  too  uncertain  to  mark  a  class,  and  even  if  they  were 
stamped  upon  the  forehead  they  are  not  matter  to  quarrel 
over  like  wealth  or  tides;  since  those  who  have  them  not 
cannot  hope  to  get  them  by  depriving  those  who  have. 

Income,  for  instance,  classifies  people  through  creating 
different  standards  of  Hving,  those  who  fall  into  the  same 
class  in  this  respect  being  likely  to  adopt  about  the  same 
external  mode  of  hfe.  It  usually  decides  whether  men 
live  in  one  quarter  of  the  city  or  another,  what  sort  of 
houses  or  apartments  they  inhabit,  how  they  dress, 
whether  the  wife  "does  all  her  own  work"  or  employs 
household  help  (and,  if  the  latter,  how  much  and  of  what 
sort),  whether  they  keep  a  carriage,  whether  they  go  into 
the  country  for  the  summer,  whether  they  travel  abroad, 
whether  they  send  their  sons  to  college,  and  so  on.     And 

250 


HOW  FAR  WEALTH  IS  THE  BASIS  OF  OPEN  CLASSES 

such  likeness  leads  to  likeness  of  ideas,  especially  in  that 
commonplace  sort  of  people — the  most  numerous  of  course 
— who  have  not  sufficient  definiteness  or  energy  of  char- 
acter to  associate  on  any  other  basis.  Note  how  difficult 
it  is  for  two  people,  congenial  in  other  respects,  to  con- 
verse freely  when  one  has  an  income  of  $5,000,  the  other 
of  $500.  Few  topics  can  be  touched  upon  without  accentu- 
ating the  superficial  but  troublesome  discrepancy.  Amuse- 
ments, household  and  the  like  are  hardly  possible;  the 
weather  may  supply  a  remark  or  two,  perhaps  also  poli- 
tics, though  here  the  economic  point  of  view  is  likely  to  ap- 
pear. Religion  or  philosophy,  if  the  parties  could  soar  so 
high,  would  be  best  of  all.  Of  course,  serious  discussion 
should  be  all  the  more  practicable  and  fruitful  because  of 
difference  of  viewpoint.  What  I  mean,  however,  is  light,  off- 
hand, sociable  talk  that  does  not  stir  any  depths.  As  between 
their  wives  the  situation  would  be  harder  still,  and  only 
an  unusual  tact  and  magnanimity  would  make  it  tolerable. 
The  result  is  that  we  ordinarily  find  it  most  comfortable 
to  associate  on  a  basis  of  income,  combined  with  and 
modified  by  the  influence  of  occupation,  culture  and  special 
tastes.  And  yet  to  do  this  is  perhaps  a  confession  of 
failure,  a  confession  that  we  do  not  know  how  to  cast  off 
the  adventitious  and  meet  as  men.  The  most  superficial 
differences,  being  the  most  apparent,  impose  themselves 
upon  our  commonly  indolent  and  sensuous  states  of  mind. 

In  proportion  to  their  energy  men  will  always  seek  power. 
It  is,  perhaps,  the  deepest  of  instincts,  resting  directly 
on  the  primary  need  for  self-expression.  But  the  kind  of 
power  sought  will  take  many  forms. 

251 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

Wealtli  stands,  in  modern  society,  for  nearly  all  the 
grosser  and  more  tangible  forms;  for  power  over  material 
goods,  primarily,  and  secondarily  over  the  more  purchas- 
able kinds  of  human  activity — hand  labor,  professional 
services,  nefwspaper  commendation,  political  assiduity 
and  so  on.  The  class  that  has  it  is,  in  all  such  matters, 
the  strong  class,  and  naturally  our  coarser  thought  con- 
cludes that  this  is  the  kind  of  power  most  worth  consid- 
eration. In  all  the  obvious  details  of  life,  in  that  seeking 
for  petty  advantages  and  immunities  in  which  most  of 
our  time  is  passed,  at  the  store  or  the  railway  station,  we 
are  measured  by  money  and  are  apt  to  measure  others  so. 
The  ascendency  of  wealth  is  too  natural  to  disappear. 
Children  prize  possessions  before  they  can  talk,  and  read- 
ily learn  that  money  is  possession  generalized.  Indeed, 
only  the  taste  for  finer  possessions  can  or  should  drive 
out  that  for  lower. 

And  yet  all  clear  minds,  or  rather  all  minds  in  their 
clearer  moments,  may  see  that  wealth  is  not  the  chief  good 
that  the  commoiiplace  and  superficial  estimate  makes  it. 
It  is  simply  a  low  form  of  power,  important  in  measure  to 
the  group  and  to  the  individual,  but  easily  preoccupying 
the  mind  beyond  its  just  claim.  If  society  gets  material 
prosperity  too  fast,  its  spiritual  life  suffers,  as  is  somewhat 
the  case  in  our  day:  and  the  individual  is  in  peril  of  moral 
isolation  and  decay  as  soon  as  he  seeks  to  get  richer  than 
his  fellows. 

The  finest  and,  in  the  long  run,  the  most  influential 
minds,  have  for  the  most  part  not  cared  for  riches,  or  not 
cared  enough  to  go  out  of  their  way  to  seek  them,  preferring 
to  live  on  bare  necessities  if  they  must  rather  than  spend 

252 


HOW  FAR  WEALTH  IS  THE  BASIS  OF  OPEN  CLASSES 

their  lives  in  an  uncongenial  scramble.  And  the  distinc- 
tively spiritual  leaders  have  always  regarded  them  as  incon- 
sistent with  their  aims.  ''Provide  neither  gold,  nor  sil- 
ver, nor  brass  in  your  purses,  nor  scrip  for  your  journey, 
neither  two  coats,  neither  shoes,  nor  yet  staves."  Not 
that  Christianity  is  opposed  to  industrial  prosperity— 
the  contrary  is  the  case — but  that  Christian  leadership 
required  the  explicit  renunciation  of  prosperity's  besetting 
sin.  In  our  day  the  life  of  Thoreau,  among  others,  illus- 
trates how  a  man  may  have  the  finer  products  of  wealth 
— the  culture  of  all  times — while  preferring  to  remain 
individually  poor.  He  held  that  for  an  unmarried  student, 
wishing  first  of  all  to  preserve  the  independence  of  his 
mind,  occasional  day  labor,  which  one  can  do  and  have 
done  with,  is  the  best  way  of  getting  a  living.  "A  man  is 
rich  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  things  which  he  can 
afford  to  let  alone."  "It  makes  but  little  difference 
whether  you  are  committed  to  a  farm  or  the  county  jail."* 
The  thoroughgoing  way  in  which  this  doctrine  is  developed 
in  his  Walden  and  other  books  makes  them  a  vade  mecum 
for  the  impecunious  idealist. 

Professor  William  James  asserts  that  the  prevalent  fear  I 
of  poverty  among  the  educated  classes  is  the  worst  moral 
disease  from  which  civilization  suffers,  paralyzing  their 
ideal  force.     "Think  of  the  strength  which  personal  in- 
difference to  poverty  would  give  us  if  we  were  devoted  to 
unpopular  causes.     We  need  no  longer  hold  our  tongues  I 
or  fear  to  vote  the  revolutionary  or  reformatory  ticket. ', 
Our  stocks  might  fall,  our  hopes  of  promotion  vanish, 
our  salaries  stop,  our  club  doors  close  in  our  faces;  yet^ 
♦Walden,  89,  91. 
253 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

while  we  lived,  we  would  imperturbably  bear  witness  to 
the  spirit,  and  our  example  would  help  to  set  free  our 
generation."* 

If  these  considerations  do  not  keep  us  from  greed,  it  is 
because  most  of  us  have  only  flashes  of  the  higher  am- 
bition. We  may  believe  that  we  could  reconcile  ourselves 
to  poverty  if  we  had  to — even  that  it  might  be  good  for 
us — but  we  do  our  best  to  avoid  it. 

For  the  ill-paid  classes,  certainly,  the  desire  for  money 
does  not  mean  *' materialism"  in  any  reproachful  sense, 
but  is  chiefly  the  means  by  which  they  hope  to  realize, 
first,  health  and  decency,  and  then  a  better  chance  at  the 
higher  life — books,  leisure,  education  and  refinement. 
They  are  necessarily  materialized  in  a  certain  sense  by  the 
fact  that  their  most  strenuous  thought  must  be  fixed  upon 
work  and  product  in  relation  to  material  needs.  It  is  in 
those  who  are  already  well-to-do  that  the  preoccupation 
with  money  is  most  degrading — as  not  justified  by  primary 
want5.  ''Meat  is  sweetest  when  it  is  nearest  the  bone," 
and  it  is  good  to  long  and  strive  for  money  when  you  havd 
an  urgent  human  need  for  it;  but  to  do  this  for  accumula-f 
tion,  luxury,  or  a  remote  security  is  not  wholesome.  Thij 
cold-blooded  storing  up  in  banks  and  tin  boxes  is  perilous 
to  the  soul,  often  becoming  a  kind  of  secret  vice,  a  disease  or 
narrow  minds,  feeble  imaginations  and  contracted  living. "jf 

In  modern  life,  then,  and  in  a  country  without  formal 

privilege,   the   question   of  classes   is   practically  one   of 

wealth,  and  of  occupation  considered  in  relation  to  wealth; 

*  The  Varieties  of  Religious  Experience,  368. 
t  I  will  not  here  discuss  the  question  just  how  far  it  serves  a  use- 
ful purpose  in  the  economic  system, 

254 


HOW  FAR  WEALTH  IS  THE  BASIS  OF  OPEN  CLASSES 

the  reason  being  not  that  this  distinction  really  dominates 
life,  but  that  it  is  the  focus  of  the  more  definite  and  urgent 
class  controversies.  Other  aims  are  pursued  in  peace; 
wealth,  because  it  is  material  and  appropriable,  involves 
conflict.  We  may  then  accept  the  economic  standpoint  for 
this  purpose  without  at  all  agreeing  with  those  who  re- 
gard it  as  more  fundamental  than  others.* 

*  If  the  reader  cares  to  know  my  opinion  of  that  doctrine — some- 
times called  the  economic  interpretation  of  history — which  teaches 
that  economic  conditions  are  in  a  peculiar  sense  the  primary  and 
determining  factor  in  society,  he  will  find  it  in  the  following  passages: 

"  The  organic  view  of  history  [which  I  hold]  denies  that  any  factor 
or  factors  are  more  ultimate  than  others.  Indeed  it  denies  that 
the  so-called  factors — such  as  the  mind,  the  various  institutions, 
the  physical  environment  and  so  on — have  any  real  existence  apart 
from  a  total  life  in  which  all  share  in  the  same  way  that  the  mem- 
bers of  the  body  share  in  the  life  of  the  animal  organism.  It  looks 
upon  mind  and  matter,  soil,  climate,  flora,  fauna,  thought,  language 
and  institutions  as  aspects  of  a  single  rounded  whole,  one  total 
growth.  We  may  concentrate  attention  upon  some  one  of  these 
things,  but  this  concentration  should  never  go  so  far  as  to  overlook 
the  subordination  of  each  to  the  whole,  or  to  conceive  one  as  pre- 
cedent to  others." 

"  I  cannot  see  that  the  getting  of  food,  or  whatever  else  the  eco- 
nomic activities  may  be  defined  to  be,  is  any  more  the  logical  basis 
of  existence  than  the  ideal  activities.  It  is  true  that  there  could  be 
no  ideas  and  institutions  without  a  food  supply;  but  no  more  could 
we  get  food  if  we  did  not  have  ideas  and  institutions.  All  work  to- 
gether, and  each  of  the  principal  functions  is  essential  to  every  other." 

"History  is  not  like  a  tangled  skein  which  you  may  straighten 
out  by  getting  hold  of  the  right  end  and  following  it  with  sufficient 
persistence.  It  has  no  straightness,  no  merely  lineal  continuity, 
in  its  nature.  It  is  a  living  thing,  to  be  known  by  sharing  its  life, 
very  much  as  you  know  a  person.  In  the  organic  world — that  is  to 
say  in  real  life — each  function  is  a  centre  from  which  causes  radiate 
and  to  which  they  converge;  all  is  alike  cause  and  effect;  there  is  no 
logical  primacy,  no  independent  variable,  no  place  where  the  thread 
begins.  As  in  the  fable  of  the  belly  and  the  members,  each  is  de- 
pendent upon  all  the  others.  You  must  see  the  whole  or  you  do 
not  truly  see  anything."  (Publications  of  the  American  Eco« 
nomic  Association,  Third  Series,  vol.  v,  426  jf.) 

255 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ON  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

The  Capitalist  Class — Its  Lack  of  Caste  Sentiment — In 
What  Sense  "the  Fittest" — Moral  Traits — How  Far 
Based  on  Service — Autocratic  and  Democratic  Princi- 
ples in  the  Control  of  Industry — Reasons  for  Expect- 
ing an  Increase  of  the  Democratic  Principle — Social 
Power  in  General — Organizing  Capacity — Nature  and 
Sources  of  Capitalist  Power — Power  Over  the  Press  and 
Over  Public  Sentiment — Upper-class  Atmosphere. 

Since  in  our  age  commerce  and  industry  absorb  most 
of  the  practical  energy  of  the  people,  the  men  that  are  fore- 
most in  these  activities  have  a  certain  ascendency,  similar 
to  that  of  M^arriors  in  a  military  age. 

Although  this  sort  of  men  is  not  sharply  marked  off, 
it  is  well  enough  indicated  by  the  term  capitalist  or  capi- 
talist-manager class;  the  large  owner  of  capital  being 
usually  more  or  less  of  a  manager  also,  wliile  the  large 
salaries  and  other  gains  of  successful  managers  soon  make 
them  capitaHsts. 

It  is  not  quite  accurate  to  speak  of  the  group  in  question 
as  the  rich,  because,  at  a  given  time,  a  large  part  of  its 
most  vigorous  membership  is  as  yet  without  wealth — 
though  in  a  way  to  get  it — and,  on  the  other  hand,  many 
of  the  actual  possessors  of  wealth  are  personally  idle  or 
ineffective.  The  essential  thing  is  a  social  tendency  or 
system  of  ideas  generated  in  the  accumulation  of  wealth 
and  having  for  its  nucleus  the  more  active  and  successful 
leaders  of  commerce  and  industry. 

256 


ON  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

That  these  are  a  very  small  class  in  proportion  to  their 
power  is  apparent,  but  not,  perhaps,  in  itself,  so  fatal  a 
defect  in  the  system  that  permits  it  as  many  imagine.  In 
so  far  as  concentration  of  control  means  that  wealth  is 
in  the  hands  of  those  who  understand  how  to  use  it  for 
the  common  good,  and  do  in  fact  so  use  it,  much  may  be 
said  in  its  favor.  We  are  all  eager  to  entrust  our  property 
to  those  who  will  make  it  profitable  to  us;  and  society, 
under  any  system  that  could  be  devised,  must  probably 
do  the  same.  But  we  may  well  ask  whether  there  is  not 
some  more  adequate  means  than  we  now  have  of  getting 
this  trust  faithfully  executed. 

For  better  or  for  worse,  concentration  is  probably  in- 
evitable in  any  society  that  has  a  vast,  mobile  wealth  sub- 
ject to  competition;  and  the  actual  inequality  is  perhaps 
not  much  greater  than  that  of  political  power,  which  is 
supposed  to  be  equally  distributed  by  general  suffrage. 
The  truth  is  that  equality  of  power  or  influence,  in  any 
sphere  of  life,  is  inconsistent  with  the  free  working  of 
human  forces,  which  is  ever  creating  differences,  some  of 
which  are  useful  to  society  and  some  harmful.  A  true 
freedom,  a  reasonable  equality,  aims  to  conserve  the  for- 
mer and  abolish  or  limit  the  latter. 

The  sentiment  of  the  class  is  not  aristocratic  in  the  or- 
dinary sense.  Although  its  members  endeavor  to  secure 
their  possessions  to  their  children,  there  is  little  of  the 
spirit  of  hereditary  caste,  which,  indeed,  is  uncongenial 
to  commerce.  Freedom  of  opportunity  is  the  ideal  in  this 
as  in  other  parts  of  American  society,  and  educational  or 
other  opportunities  designed  to  maintain  or  increase  it  are 

257 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

sincerely  approved  and  supported.  There  is,  in  fact,  an 
almost  inevitable  dualism  which  makes  it  natural  that  a 
man  should  strive  to  aggrandize  himself,  his  family  and 
his  class  even  though  he  truly  wishes  for  greater  equality 
of  privilege.  He  floats  on  two  currents,  and  as  a  man  and 
a  brother  may  be  glad  of  restraints  upon  his  own  class 
which  are  in  the  interest  of  justice. 

The  ideal  of  freedom  prevalent  in  the  managing  class  is, 
however,  somewhat  narrow  and  hardly  hospitable  to  the 
group  self-assertion  of  the  less  privileged  classes.  The 
labor  movement  has  made  its  way  by  its  energy  and  reason- 
ableness in  the  face  of  a  rather  general  mistrust  and  oppo- 
sition— sometimes  justified  by  its  aberrations — on  the 
part  of  the  masters  of  industry.  Yet  even  in  this  regard, 
as  it  comes  to  be  seen  that  organization  is  an  element  of 
fair  play,  and  as  experience  shows  that  union  may  become 
an  instrument  of  stability,  a  broader  sentiment  makes 
headway. 

Like  everything  else  that  has  power  in  human  life,  the 
money-strong  represent,  in  some  sense,  the  survival  of 
the  fittest — not  necessarily  of  the  best.  That  is,  their  suc- 
cess, certainly  no  guaranty  of  righteousness,  does  prove 
a  certain  adaptation  to  conditions,  those  who  get  rich 
being  in  general  the  ablest,  for  this  purpose,  of  the  many 
who  devote  their  energies  to  it  with  about  the  same  op- 
portunities. They  are  not  necessarily  the  ablest  in  other 
regards,  since  only  certain  kinds  of  ability  count  in  mak- 
ing money;  other  kinds,  and  those  often  the  highest,  such 
as  devotion  to  intellectual  or  moral  ideals,  being  even  a[ 
hindrance.     Men  of  genius  will  seldom  shine  in  this  way, 

258 


ON  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

because,  as  a  rule^only  a  somewhat  commonplace  mind 
will  give  itself  .whole-heartedly  to  the  commercial  ideal. 

There  is  much  likeness  in  the  persons  and  methods  by 
which,  in  all  ages,  the  cruder  sort  of  power  is  acquired. 
When  the  military  system  is  ascendent  over  the  industrial 
it  is  acquired  in  one  way,  when  property  is  secure  from 
force  in  another,  but  this  makes  less  difference  than  might 
be  supposed.  In  either  case  it  is  not  mere  personal 
prowess,  with  the  sword  or  with  the  tool,  that  gains  iarge 
success,  but  power  in  organization.  Aggressiveness, 
single-minded  devotion  to  the  end  and,  above  all,  organ- 
izing faculty — these  were  the  methods  of  Clovis  and  Pepin 
and  William  of  Normandy,  as  they  are  of  our  rulers  of 
finance.  And  now,  as  formerly,  much  of  the  power  that 
is  alive  in  such  men  falls  by  inheritance  into  weaker  hands. 

As  to  righteousness,  in  the  sense  of  good  intention,  they 
probably  do  not,  on  the  whole,  differ  much  from  the  aver- 
age. Some  may  be  found  of  the  highest  character,  some 
of  gross  unscrupulousness.  The  majority  are  doubdess 
without  moral  distinction  and  take  the  color  of  their  asso- 
ciates. The  view  sometimes  set  forth  on  behalf  of  men 
of  wealth  that  riches  go  with  virtue,  and  the  view,  more 
popular  among  non-possessors,  that  it  comes  by  wicked- 
ness, are  equally  untrustworthy.  The  great  mass  of 
wealth  is  accumulated  by  solid  qualities — energy,  tenacity, 
shrewdness  and  the  like — which  may  coexist  with  great 
moral  refinement  or  with  the  opposite. 

As  a  group,  however,  they  are  liable  to  moral  deficiencies 
analogous  to  those  of  the  conquerors  and  organizers  of 
states  just  referred   to.     There  is,  especially,  a  certain 

2,59 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

moral  irresponsibility  which  is  natural  to  those  who  have 
broken  away  from  customary  limitations  and  restraints 
and  are  coursing  almost  at  will  over  an  unfenced  territory. 
I  mean  that  business  enterprise,  Hke  military  enterprise, 
deals  largely  with  relations  as  to  which  there  are  no  settled 
rules  of  morality,  no  constraining  law  or  pubh'c  opinion. 
Such  conditions  breed  in  the  ordinary  actor  a  Macchia- 
vellian  opportunism.  Since  it  is  hard  to  say  what  is  just 
and  honest  in  the  vast  and  abstract  operations  of  finance, 
human  nature  is  apt  to  cease  looking  for  a  standard  and 
to  seize  booty  wherever  and  however  it  safely  can.  Hence 
the  truly  piratical  character  of  many  of  our  great  trans- 
actions. And  in  smaller  matters  also,  as  in  escaping  tax- 
ation, it  is  often  fatally  easy  for  the  rich  to  steal. 

It  must  be  allowed  that  such  ascendency  as  the  capitalist 
class  has  rests,  in  part  at  least,  upon  service.  That  is  to 
say,  its  members  have  had  an  important  function  to  per- 
form, and  in  performing  that  function  have  found  them- 
selves in  a  position  to  grasp  wealth.  The  great  work  of 
the  time  has  been,  or  has  seemed  to  be,  the  extension  and 
reconstruction  of  industry.  In  this  work  leadership  and 
organization  have  been  needed  on  a  great  scale,  and  our 
captains  of  industry  have  nobly  met  this  demand.  That 
their  somewhat  autocratic  control  of  production  was  called 
for  by  the  situation  seems  to  be  shown  by  the  rather  gen- 
eral failure  of  cooperative  enterprises  intended  to  dispense 
with  it.  Why  is  it  that  America  abounds  in  opportunity, 
and  that  every  sort  of  industrial  capacity  is  eagerly  sought 
out  and  rewarded  ?  Of  course  natural  advantages  play  a 
great  part,  but  much  must  also  be  ascribed  to  the  energy 

260 


ON  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

and  imaginative  daring  of  our  entrepreneurs,  many  of 
whom  have  spent  great  faculty  and  tireless  zeal  upon  busi- 
ness, in  a  spirit  of  adventure  and  achievement  rather  than 
of  gain.  Where  the  general  is  aggressive  the  soldier  will 
be  kept  busy. 

I  have  no  sympathy  with  the  general  abuse  of  com- 
mercialism, but  hold  with  Montesquieu  that  *'The  spirit 
of  commerce  is  naturally  attended  with  that  of  frugality, 
economy,  moderation,  labor,  prudence,  tranquillity,  order 
and  rule.  So  long  as  this  spirit  subsists  the  riches  it  pro- 
duces have  no  ill  effect.  The  mischief  is  when  excessive 
wealth  destroys  the  spirit  of  commerce;  then  it  is  that 
the  inconveniences  of  inequality  begin  to  be  felt."* 

The  conception  of  keen  adaptation  of  means  to  ends, 
of  exact  social  workmanship,  inculcated  by  "business" 
is  of  untold  value  to  our  civilization  and  capable  of  very 
general  application.  It  is  a  very  proper  demand  that  gov- 
ernment, education  and  philanthropy  should,  in  this  sense, 
be  conducted  on  business  principles. 

At  the  same  time  it  is  plain  that  a  large  part  of  the  accu- 
mulation of  wealth — hard  unfortunately  to  distinguish 
from  other  parts — is  accomplished  not  by  social  service 
but,  as  just  intimated,  by  something  akin  to  piracy.  This 
is  not  so  much  the  peculiar  wickedness  of  a  predatory 
class  as  a  tendency  in  all  of  us  to  abuse  power  when  not 
under  definite  legal  or  moral  control.  The  vast  trans- 
actions associated  with  modern  industry  have  come  very 
little  under  such  control,  and  offer  a  field  for  freebooting 
such  as  the  world  has  never  seen. 

Nor  need  we  affirm  that  even  the  gains  of  the  great 
*  The  Spirit  of  Laws,  book  v,  chap,  6. 
261 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

organizers  are  in  the  highest  sense  right,  only  that  they  are 
natural  and  do  not  necessarily  involve  conscious  wrong- 
doing. 

The  question  of  the  rather  arbitrary  control  of  industry 
by  the  capitalist-manager,  which  now  prevails,  and  of  the 
possibility  of  this  control  being  diminished  or  modified 
in  the  future,  calls  for  some  analysis  of  underlying  forces. 
Evidently  there  is  a  conflict  of  principles  here— the  demo- 
cratic or  popular  and  the  autocratic.  The  latter,  now 
ascendant,  has  the  advantages  of  concentration,  secrecy 
and  promptness — the  same  which  give  it  superiority  in 
war.  On  the  other  hand,  the  democratic  principle  should 
have  the  same  merit  in  industry  and  commerce  that  it  has 
in  politics;  namely  that  of  enlisting  the  pride  and  am- 
bition of  the  individual  and  so  getting  him  to  put  himself 
into  his  work.  Other  things  being  equal,  a  free  system  is  a 
more  vital  and  energetic  organism  than  one  in  which  the 
initiative  and  choice  come  from  a  central  authority. 

And  it  is  apparent  that  the  working  of  the  autocratic 
system  in  our  economic  life  shows  just  the  strength  and 
weakness  that  would  naturally  be  expected.  The  prompt 
undertaking  and  execution  of  vast  schemes  at  a  favorable 
moment,  and  the  equally  prompt  recession  when  condi- 
tions alter;  the  investment  of  great  resources  in  enter- 
prises which  yield  no  immediate  return;  the  decision  and 
secrecy  important  in  overcoming  competitors;  the  un- 
hesitating sacrifice  of  workmen  and  their  families  when 
the  market  calls  for  a  shut-down  of  production — such 
traits  as  these  are  of  the  utmost  importance  to  commercial 
success,  and  belong  to  arbitrary  control  rather  than  to 

262 


ON  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

anything  of  a  more  popular  sort.  On  the  other  hand, 
it  would  be  easy  to  show  at  any  length  desired  that  such 
control  is  accompanied  by  a  wide-spread  disaffection  of 
spirit  on  the  part  of  the  working  classes,  which,  expressed 
in  unwilling  labor,  strikes  and  agitation,  is  a  commercial 
disadvantage,  and  a  social  problem  so  urgent  as  to  unsettle 
the  whole  economic  system. 

The  autocratic  system  has  evidently  a  special  advantage 
in  a  time  of  rapid  and  confused  development,  when  con- 
ditions are  little  understood  or  regulated,  and  the  state 
of  things  is  one  of  somewhat  blind  and  ruthless  warfare; 
but  it  is  quite  possible  that  as  the  new  industries  become 
established  and  comparatively  stable,  there  will  be  a  com- 
mercial as  well  as  a  social  demand  for  a  system  that  shall 
invite  and  utilize  more  of  the  good-will  and  self-activity 
of  the  workman.  "The  system  which  comes  nearest  to 
calling  out  all  the  self-interests  and  using  all  the  faculties 
and  sharing  all  the  benefits  will  outcompete  any  system 
that  strikes  a  lower  level  of  motive  faculty  and  profit/'* 
And  the  penetrating  thinker  who  wrote  this  sentence  be- 
lieved that  the  function  of  the  autocratic  "captain  of  in- 
dustry" was  essentially  that  of  an  explorer  and  con- 
queror of  new  domains  destined  to  come  later  under  the 
rule  of  a  commonwealth.  Indeed  the  rise,  on  purely  com- 
mercial grounds,  of  a  more  humane  and  individualizing 
tendency,  aiming  in  one  way  or  another  to  propitiate  the 
self-feeling  of  the  workman  and  get  him  to  identify  him- 
self with  his  work,  is  well  ascertained.  Among  the  fa- 
miliar phases  of  this  are  the  notable  growth  of  cooperative 
*  Henry  D.  Lloyd,  Man  the  Social  Creator,  255. 
263 


1/ 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

production  and  exchange  in  Belgium,  Russia  and  other 
European  countries,  the  increasing  respect  for  labor  unions 
and  the  development  by  large  concerns  of  devices  for  in- 
surance, for  pensions,  for  profit-sharing  and  for  the  mate- 
rial and  social  comfort  of  their  employees.  "As  a  better 
government  has  come  up  from  the  people  than  came  down 
from  the  kings,  so  a  better  industry  appears  to  be  coming 
up  from  the  people  than  came  down  from  the  capitalists."* 
In  some  form  or  other  the  democratic  principle  is  sure 
to  make  its  way  into  the  economic  system.  Cooperation, 
labor  unions,  public  regulation,  public  ownership  and  the 
informal  control  of  opinion  will  no  doubt  all  have  a  part; 
the  general  outcome  being  that  the  citizen  becomes  a  more 
vital  agent  in  the  life  of  the  whole. 

Before  discussing  further  the  power  of  the  capitalist- 
manager  class,  we  ought  to  think  out  clearly  just  what  we 
mean  by  social  power,  since  nowhere  are  we  more  likely 
to  go  astray  than  in  vagueness  regarding  such  notions. 

Evidently  the  essence  of  it  is  control  over  the  human 
spirit,  and  the  most  direct  phases  of  power  are  immediately 
spiritual,  such  as  one  mind  exercises  over  another  by 
virtue  of  what  it  is,  without  any  means  but  the  ordinary 
symbols  of  communication.  This  is  live,  human  power, 
and  those  who  have  it  in  great  degree  are  the  prime 
movers  of  society,  whether  they  gain  any  more  formal 
or  conventional  sort  or  not.  Such,  for  instance,  are  the 
poets,  prophets,  philosophers,  inventors  and  men  of  science 
of  all  ages,  the  great  political,  military  and  religious  organ- 

*  Idem,  246.  Lloyd  was  rather  a  prophet  than  a  man  of  science, 
but  there  is  a  shrewd  sense  of  fact  back  of  his  visions. 

264 


ON  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

izers,  and  even  the  real  captains  of  industry  and  com- 
merce All  power  involves  in  its  origin  mental  or  spiritual 
force  of  some  sort;  and  so  far  as  it  attaches  to  passive 
attributes,  like  hereditary  social  position,  offices,  bank- 
accounts,  and  the  like,  it  does  so  through  the  aid  of  conven- 
tions and  habits  which  regard  these  things  as  repositories 
of  spiritual  force  and  allow  them  to  exercise  its  function. 

In  its  immediate  spiritual  phase  power  is  at  a  maximum 
of  vitality  and  a  minimum  of  establishment.  Only  a  few 
can  recognize  it.  Its  possessors,  then,  strive  to  establish 
and  organize  it,  to  give  it  social  expression  and  efficacy, 
to  gain  position,  reputation  or  wealth.  Since  power  is 
not  apparent  to  the  common  mind  until  it  takes  on  these 
forms,  they  are,  to  superficial  observation  and  in  all  the 
conventional  business  of  life,  the  only  valid  evidence  of  it. 
And  yet  by  the  time  these  symbols  appear,  the  spiritual 
basis  has  often  passed  away.  Primary  power  goes  for  the 
most  part  unseen,  much  of  it  taking  on  no  palpable  form 
until  late  in  life,  much  yielding  only  posthumous  reputa- 
tion, and  much,  and  that  perhaps  the  finest  sort,  having 
never  any  vulgar  recognition  whatever. 

Regarding  money-value  we  may  say,  in  general,  that 
it  is  one  expression  of  the  conventional  or  institutional 
phase  of  society,  and  exhibits  all  that  mixture  of  grandeur 
and  confusion  with  which  nature  usually  presents  herself 
to  our  understanding.  I  mean  that  its  appraisal  of  men 
and  things  is  partly  expressive  of  great  principles,  and 
partly,  so  far  as  we  can  see,  unjust,  trivial  or  accidental. 
Some  gains  are  vital  or  organic,  springing  from  the  very 
nature  of  life  and  justified  as  we  come  to  understand  that 
life;  some  are  fanciful,  springing  from  the  tastes  or  whims 

265 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

of  the  rich,  hke  the  value  of  diamonds  or  first  editions,  and 
some  parasitical,  like  those  of  the  legally-protected 
swindler.  In  general  the  values  of  the  market  are  those 
of  the  habitual  world  in  all  its  grossness;  spiritual  values, 
except  those  that  have  become  conventional,  being  little 
felt  in  it.  These  appeal  to  the  future.  The  detailed 
working  of  market  value  has  no  ascertainable  connection 
with  moral  worth,  and  we  must  not  expect  it  to  have.  If 
a  man's  work  is  moral,  in  the  higher  sense,  it  is  in  its 
nature  an  attack  upon  the  habitual  world  which  the  latter 
is  more  likely  to  resent  than  reward.  One  can  only  take 
up  that  useful  work  that  seems  best  suited  to  him,  trying  to 
be  content  if  its  value  is  small,  and,  if  large,  to  feel  that 
the  power  over  money  it  gives  him  is  rightly  his  only  in  so 
far  as  he  uses  it  for  the  general  good. 

The  more  tangible  kind  of  social  power — so  far  as  it  is 
intrinsic  to  the  man  and  not  adventitious  like  inherited 
wealth — depends  chiefly  upon  organizing  capacity, 
which  may  be  described  as  the  ability  to  build  and  operate 
human  machinery.  It  has  its  roots  in  tact  and  skill  in 
dealing  with  men,  in  tenacity,  and  in  a  certain  instinct 
for  construction.  One  who  possesses  it  sees  a  new  person 
as  social  material,  and  is  likely  to  know  what  can  be  made 
of  him  better  than  he  knows  himself.* 

*  Such  a  one 

"Lasst  jeden  ganz  das  bleiben  was  er  ist; 
Er  wacht  nur  driiber  das  er's  immer  sei 
Am  rechten  Ort;   so  weiss  er  aller  Menschen 
Vermogen  zu  dem  seinigen  zu  machen." 
"He  lets  every  one  remain  just  what  he  is,  but  takes  care  that  ha 
shall  always  be  it  in  the  right  place:   thus  he  knows  how  to  make 
all  men's  power  his  own."     Schiller,  Wallenstein's  Lager,  I,  4. 

266 


ON  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

Of  all  kinds  of  leadership  this  has  the  readiest  recogni- 
tion and  the  highest  market  value;  and  naturally  so,  since 
it  is  essential  to  every  sort  of  cooperative  achievement. 
Its  possessors  understand  the  immediate  control  of  the 
world,  which  they  will  exercise  no  matter  what  the  ap- 
parent forms  of  organization  may  be.  In  all  ages  they 
have  gained  and  held  the  grosser  forms  of  power,  when- 
ever these  were  at  all  open  to  competition.  Thus,  during 
the  early  Middle  Age,  men  of  energy  and  management, 
more  or  less  favored  by  situation,  built  up  for  themselves 
local  authority  and  estate,  or  perhaps  exploited  the  op- 
portunities for  still  wider  organization,  like  the  founders 
of  Burgundy  and  Brittany  and  the  early  kings  of  France; 
very  much  in  the  same  manner  as  men  of  our  own  day 
build  up  commercial  and  industrial  systems  and  become 
senators  and  railway  presidents. 

Indeed,  this  type  of  ability  was  never  in  such  demand  as 
it  now  is,  for  the  conduct  of  the  vast  and  diverse  social  struct- 
ures rising  about  us— industrial  enterprises,  political  parties, 
labor  unions,  newspapers,  universities  and  philanthropies. 

It  has  its  high  money  value  partly  because  of  its  rarity 
and  partly  because  there  is  a  regular  market  for  it;  the 
need  being  so  urgent  and  obvious  as  to  create  a  steady 
and  intelligent  demand.  In  this  latter  respect  it  contrasts 
with  services,  like  moral  leadership,  which  people  need 
but  will  seldom  pay  for.  A  third  reason  is  that  its  pos- 
sessors are  almost  always  clever  enough  to  know  their 
own  value  and  secure  its  recognition. 

In  discussing  the  power  of  the  capitalist  class  there  is 
no  question  of  the  finer  and  higher  forms  of  power.     We 

267 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

shall  rarely  find  among  the  rich  any  pregnant  spiritual 
leadership,  theirs  being  a  pedestrian  kind  of  authority 
which  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  every-day  comfort 
of  their  contemporaries  but  does  not  attempt  to  sway  the 
profounder  destinies  of  the  race.  Nor  does  the  world 
often  accord  them  enduring  fame:  lacking  spiritual  sig- 
nificance their  names  are  writ  in  water.  Even  in  industry 
the  creative  thought,  the  inventions  which  are  the  germs 
of  a  new  era,  seldom  come  from  money-winners,  since  they 
require  a  different  kind  of  insight. 

The  capitalist  represents  power  over  those  social  values 
that  are  tangible  and  obvious  enough  to  have  a  definite 
standing  in  the  market.  His  money  and  prestige  will  com- 
mand food,  houses,  clothes,  tools  and  all  conventional  and 
standard  sorts  of  personal  service,  from  lawn-mowing  to 
the  administration  of  a  railroad,  not  genius  or  love  or 
anything  of  that  nature.  That  wealth  means  social  power 
of  this  coarser  sort  is  apparent  in  a  general  way,  and  yet 
merits  a  sonaewhat  closer  examination. 

We  have,  first,  its  immediate  power  over  goods  and 
services:  the  master  of  riches  goes  attended  by  an  in- 
visible army  of  potential  servitors,  ready  to  do  for  him 
anything  that  the  law  allows,  and  often  more.  He  is  in 
this  way,  as  in  so  many  others,  the  successor  of  the  noble- 
man of  mediaeval  and  early  modern  history,  who  went 
about  with  a  band  of  visible  retainers  eager  to  work  his 
will  upon  all  opposers.  He  is  the  ruler  of  a  social  system 
wherever  he  may  be. 

The  political  power  of  wealth  is  due  only  in  part  to  direct 
corruption,  vast  as  that  is,  but  is  even  more  an  indirect 
and  perfectly  legal  pressure  in  the  shape  of  inducements 

268 


ON  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

which  its  adroit  use  can  always  bring  to  bear — trade  to 
the  business  man,  practice  to  the  lawyer  and  employment 
to  the  handworker:  every  one  when  he  thinks  of  his  in- 
come wishes  to  conciliate  the  rich.  Influence  of  this  sort 
makes  almost  every  rich  man  a  political  power,  even  with- 
out his  especially  wishing  to  be.  But  when  wealth  is 
united  to  a  shrewd  and  unscrupulous  political  ambition, 
when  it  sets  out  to  control  legislation  or  the  administra- 
tion of  the  laws,  it  becomes  truly  perilous.  We  cannot 
fail  to  see  that  a  large  part  of  our  high  offices  are  held  by 
men  who  have  no  marked  qualification  but  wealth,  and 
would  be  insignificant  without  it;  also  that  our  legislation 
— municipal,  state  and  national — and  most  of  our  ad- 
ministrative machinery,  feel  constantly  the  grasp  of 
pecuniary  power.  Probably  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that 
except  when  public  opinion  is  unusually  aroused  wealth 
can  generally  have  its  way  in  our  politics  if  it  makes  an 
effort  to  do  so. 

As  to  the  influence  of  the  rich  over  the  professional 
classes — lawyers,  doctors,  clergymen,  teachers,  civil  and 
mechanical  engineers  and  the  like — we  may  say  in  gen- 
eral that  it  is  potent  but  somewhat  indirect,  implying  not 
conscious  subservience  but  a  moral  ascendency  through 
habit  and  suggestion.  The  abler  men  of  this  sort  are 
generally  educated  and  self-respecting,  have  a  good  deal 
of  professional  spirit  and  are  not  wholly  dependent  upon 
any  one  employer.  At  the  same  time,  they  get  their  living 
largely  through  the  rich,  from  whom  the  most  lucrative 
employment  comes,  and  who  have  many  indirect  ways  of 
making  and  marring  careers.  The  ablest  men  in  the  legal 
profession  are  in  close  relations  with  the  rich  and  commonly 

269 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

become  capitalists  themselves;  physicians  are  more  in- 
dependent, because  their  art  is  not  directly  concerned  with 
property,  yet  look  to  wealthy  patients  for  their  most  profit- 
able practice;  clergymen  are  under  pressure  to  satisfy 
wealthy  parishioners,  and  teachers  must  win  the  good  will 
of  the  opulent  citizens  who  control  educational  boards. 
i  Now  there  is  nothing  in  social  psychology  surer  than 
that  if  there  is  a  man  by  whose  good  will  we  desire  to 
profit,  we  are  likely  to  adapt  our  way  of  thinking  to  his.  Im- 
pelled to  imagine  frequently  his  state  of  mind,  and  to  desire 
that  it  should  be  favorable  to  our  aims,  we  are  unconsciously 
swayed  by  his  thought,  the  more  so  if  he  treats  us  with  a  cour- 
tesy which  does  not  alarm  our  self-respect.  It  is  in  this 
way  that  wealth  imposes  upon  intellect.     Who  can  deny  it  ? 

Newspapers  are  generally  owned  by  men  of  wealth, 
which  has  no  doubt  an  important  influence  upon  the 
sentiments  expressed  in  them;  but  a  weightier  considera- 
tion is  the  fact  that  they  depend  for  profit  chiefly  upon 
advertisements,  the  most  lucrative  of  which  come  from 
rich  merchants  who  naturally  resent  doctrines  that 
threaten  their  interest.  Of  course  the  papers  must  reach 
the  people,  in  order  to  have  a  value  for  advertising  or 
any  other  purpose,  and  this  requires  adaptation  to  public 
opinion;  but  the  public  of  what  are  known  as  the  better 
class  of  papers  are  chiefly  the  comparatively  well-to-do. 
And  even  that  portion  of  the  press  which  aims  to  please 
the  hand-working  class  is  usually  more  willing  to  carry 
on  a  loud  but  vague  agitation,  not  intended  to  accomplish 
anything  but  increase  circulation,  than  to  push  real  and 
definite  reform. 

270 


CN  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

All  phases  of  opinion,  including  the  most  earnest  and 
honest  inquiry  into  social  questions,  finds  some  voice  in 
print,  but — leaving  aside  times  when  public  opinion  is 
greatly  aroused — those  phases  that  are  backed  by  wealth" 
interests  have  a  great  advantage  in  the  urgency,  per- 
sistence and  cleverness  with  which  they  are  presented. 
At  least,  this  has  been  the  case  in  the  past.  It  is  a  general 
feeling  of  thoughtful  men  among  the  hand-working  class 
that  it  is  hard  to  get  a  really  fair  statement  of  their  view 
of  industrial  questions  from  that  portion  of  the  newspaper 
and  magazine  press  that  is  read  by  well-to-do  people. 
The  reason  seems  to  be  mainly  that  the  writers  live  un- 
consciously in  an  atmosphere  of  upper-class  ideas  from 
which  they  do  not  free  themselves  by  thorough  inquiry. 
Besides  this,  there  is  a  sense  of  what  their  readers  expect, 
and  also,  perhaps,  a  vague  feeling  that  the  sentiments  of 
the  hand-working  class  may  threaten  public  order. 

Since  the  public  has  supplanted  the  patron,  a  man  of 
letters  has  least  of  all  to  hope  or  fear  from  the  rich — if 
he  accepts  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Howells  that  the  latter 
can  do  nothing  toward  making  or  marring  a  new  book. 

The  power  of  wealth  over  public  sentiment  is  exercised 
partly  through  sway  over  the  educated  classes  and  the 
press,  but  also  by  the  more  direct  channel  of  prestige. 
Minds  of  no  great  insight,  that  is  to  say  the  majority, 
mould  their  ideals  from  the  spectacle  of  visible  and  tangi- 
ble success.  In  a  commercial  epoch  this  pertains  to  the 
rich;  who  consequently  add  to  the  other  sources  of  their 
influence  power  over  the  imagination.  Millions  accept  the 
money-making  ideal  who  are  unsuited  to  attain  it,  and 
run  themselves  out  of  breath  and  courage  in  a  race  they 

27^ 


bUClAL    UKCiANiZAllUN 

should  never  have  entered;  it  is  as  if  the  thin-legged  and 
flat-chested  people  of  the  land  should  seek  glory  in  foot- 
ball. The  money-game  is  mere  foolishness  and  morti- 
fication for  most  of  us,  and  there  is  a  madness  of  the  crowd 
in  the  way  we  enter  into  it.  Even  those  who  most  abuse 
the  rich  commonly  show  mental  subservience  in  that  they 
assume  that  the  rich  have,  in  fact,  gotten  what  is  best 
worth  having. 

As  hinted  above,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  an  upper-class 
atmosphere,  in  the  sense  of  a  state  of  mind  regarding  social 
questions,  initiated  by  the  more  successful  money-winners 
and  consciously  or  unconsciously  imposed  upon  business 
and  professional  people  at  large.  Most  of  us  exist  in  this 
atmosphere  and  are  so  pervaded  by  it  that  it  is  not  easy 
for  us  to  understand  or  fairly  judge  the  sentiment  of  the 
hand-working  classes.  The  spokesmen  of  radical  doc- 
trines are,  in  this  regard,  doing  good  service  to  the  public 
mind  by  setting  in  motion  counterbalancing,  if  not  more 
trustworthy,  currents  of  opinion. 

If  any  one  of  business  or  professional  antecedents  doubts 
that  he  breathes  a  class  atmosphere,  let  him  live  for  a  time 
at  a  social  settlement  in  the  industrial  part  of  one  of  our 
cities — not  a  real  escape  but  as  near  it  as  most  of  us  have 
the  resolution  to  achieve — reading  working-class  literature 
.(he  will  be  surprised  to  find  how  well  worth  reading  it  is), 
talking  with  hand-working  people,  attending  meetings, 
and  in  general  opening  his  mind  as  wide  as  possible  to  the 
influences  about  him.  He  will  presently  become  aware  of 
being  in  a  new  medium  of  thought  and  feeling;  which  may 
or  may  not  be  congenial  but  cannot  fail  to  be  instructive 

272 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ON  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS— 
Continued 

The  Influence  of  Ambitious  Young  Men — Security  of  the 
Dominant  Class  in  an  Open  System — Is  there  Danger  of 
Anarchy  and  Spoliation? — Whether  the  Sway  of  Riches 
is  Greater  now  than  Formerly — Whether  Greater  in 
America  than  in  England, 

In  any  society  where  there  is  some  freedom  of  oppor- 
tunity ambitious  young  men  are  an  element  of  extreme 
importance.  Their  numbers  are  formidable  and  their 
intelligence  and  aggressiveness  much  more  so:  in  short, 
they  want  an  opening  and  are  bound  to  get  it. 

As  the  members  of  this  class  are  mainly  impecunious, 
it  might  be  supposed  that  they  would  be  a  notable  offset 
to  the  powder  of  wealth;  and  in  a  sense  they  are.  It  is 
their  interest  to  keep  open  the  opportunity  to  rise,  and 
they  are  accordingly  inimical  to  caste  and  everything 
which  tends  toward  it.  But  it  by  no  means  follows  that 
they  are  opposed  to  the  ascendency  of  an  upper  class  based 
on  wealth  and  position.  This  becomes  evident  when  onel 
remembers  that  their  aim  is  not  to  raise  the  lower  class,  bid 
to  get  out  of  it.  The  rising  young  man  does  not  identify 
himself  with  the  lowly  stratum  of  society  in  which  he  is 
born,  but,  dissatisfied  with  his  antecedents,  he  strikes  out 
for  wealth,  power  or  fame.  In  doing  so  he  fixes  his  eyes 
on  those  who  have  these  things,  and  from  whose  example 

273 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

he  may  learn  how  to  gain  them;  thus  tending  to  accept  the 
ideals  and  standards  of  the  actual  upper  class.     He  gives 
a  great  deal  of  attention  to  the  points  of  view  of  A,  a  rail- 
road president,  B,  a  senator,  and  even  of  C,  head  of  a  labor 
organization,  but  to  a  mere  farmer  or  laborer,  whose  hand 
is  on  no  levers,  he  is  indifferent, 
^"""j^he  students  of  our  universities  are  subject  to  a  con- 
\  flict  between  the  healthy  idealism  of  youth,  which  prevails 
with  the  more  generous,  and  the  influences  just  indicated, 
which  become  stronger  as  education  draws  closer  to  prac- 
^tical  affairs.     On  the  whole,  possessed  of  one  great  priv- 
ilege and  eager  to  gain  others,  they  are  not  so  close  in 
spirit  to  the  unprivileged  classes  as  might  be  imagined. 

Thus  the  force  of  ambitious  youth  goes  largely  to  sup- 
port the  ascendency  of  the  money-getting  class;  directly, 
in  that  it  accepts  the  ideals  of  this  class  and  looks  forward 
to  sharing  its  power;  indirectly,  in  that  it  is  withdrawn 
from  the  resources  of  the  humbler  class.  How  long  will 
the  rising  lawyer  retain  his  college  enthusiasm  for  social 
reform  if  the  powers  that  be  welcome  him  and  pay  him 
salaries  ? 

We  have  then  the  fact,  rather  paradoxical  at  first  sight, 
that  the  dominant  class  in  a  competitive  society,  although 
unstable  as  to  its  individual  membership,  may  well  be 
more  secure  as  a  whole  than  the  corresponding  class 
under  any  other  system — precisely  because  it  continually 
draws  into  itself  most  of  the  natural  ability  from  the  other 
classes.  Throughout  English  history,  we  are  told,  the 
salvation  of  the  aristocracy  has  been  its  comparative  open- 
ness, the  fact  that  ability  could  percolate  into  it,  instead 

274 


ON  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

of  rising  up  behind  it  like  water  behind  a  dam,  as  was  the 
case  in  pre-revolutionary  France.  And  the  same  principle 
is  working  even  more  effectually  in  our  own  economic 
order.  A  great  weakness  of  the  trades-union  movement, 
as  of  all  attempts  at  self-assertion  on  the  part  of  the  less 
privileged  classes,  is  that  it  is  constantly  losing  able  lead- 
ers. As  soon  as  a  man  shows  that  marked  capacity 
which  would  fit  him  to  do  something  for  his  fellows,  it 
is  ten  to  one  that  he  accepts  a  remunerative  position,  and  so 
passes  into  the  upper  class.  It  is  increasingly  the  practice 
— perhaps  in  some  degree  the  deliberate  policy — of  organ- 
ized wealth  to  win  over  in  this  way  the  more  promising 
leaders  from  the  side  of  labor;  and  this  is  one  respect  in 
which  a  greater  class-consciousness  and  loyalty  on  the 
part  of  the  latter  would  add  to  its  strength. 

Thus  it  is  possible  to  have  freedom  to  rise  and  yet  have 
at  the  same  time  a  miserable  and  perhaps  degraded  lower 
class — degraded  because  the  social  system  is  administered 
with  little  regard  to  its  just  needs.  This  is  more  the  case 
with  our  own  industrial  system,  and  with  modern  society 
in  general,  than  our  self-satisfaction  commonly  perceives. 
Our  one-sided  ideal  of  freedom,  excellent  so  far  as  it  goes, 
has  somewhat  blinded  us  to  the  encroachments  of  slavery 
on  an  unguarded  flank.  I  mean  such  things  as  bad  hous- 
ing, insecurity,  excessive  and  deadening  work,  child  labor 
and  the  lack  of  any  education  suited  to  the  industrial 
masses — the  last  likely  to  be  remedied  now  that  it  is  seen  to 
threaten  industrial  prosperity. 

It  is  hard  to  say  how  much  of  the  timidity  noticeable  in 
the  discussion  of  questions  of  this  sort  by  the  comfortable 

275 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

classes  is  due  to  a  vague  dread  of  ana^rchy  and  spoliation 
by  an  organized  and  self-conscious  lower  class,  but  prob- 
ably a  good  deal.  If  power,  under  democracy,  goes  with 
numbers,  and  the  many  are  poor,  it  would  seem  at  first 
glance  that  they  would  despoil  the  few. 

To  conservative  thinkers  a  hundred,  or  even  fifty,  years 
ago  this  seemed  almost  an  axiom,  but  a  less  superficial 
philosophy  has  combined  with  experience  to  show  that 
anarchy,  in  Mr.  Bryce's  words,  "is  of  all  dangers  or  bug- 
bears the  one  which  the  modern  world  has  least  cause  to 
fear."* 

The  most  apparent  reason  for  this  is  the  one  already 
discussed,  namely,  that  power  does  not  go  with  mere  num- 
bers, under  a  democracy  more  than  under  any  other  form 
of  government;  a  democratic  aristocracy,  that  is,  one  whose 
members  maintain  their  position  in  an  open  struggle,  be- 
ing without  doubt  the  strongest  that  can  exist.  We  shall 
never  have  a  revolution  until  we  have  caste;  which,  as  I 
have  tried  to  show,  is  but  a  remote  possibility.  And  as  an 
ally  of  established  power  w^e  have  to  reckon  with  the  inertia 
of  social  structure,  something  so  massive  and  profound 
that  the  loudest  agitation  is  no  more  than  a  breeze  ruf- 
fling the  surface  of  deep  waters.  Dominated  by  the  habits 
which  it  has  generated,  we  all  of  us,  even  the  agitators,  up- 
hold the  existing  order  without  knowing  it.  There  may, 
of  course,  be  sudden  changes  due  to  the  fall  of  what  has 
long  been  rotten,  but  I  see  little  cause  to  suppose  that  the 
timbers  of  our  system  are  in  tliis  condition :  they  are  rough 
and  unlovely,  but  far  from  weak. 

Another  conservative  condition  is  that  economic  solid- 
*  The  American  Commonwealth,  Chapter  94. 
276 


ON  THE  ASCENDENXY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

arity  which  makes  the  welfare  of  all  classes  hang  together, 
so  that  any  general  disturbance  causes  suffering  to  all, 
and  more  to  the  weak  than  to  the  strong.  A  sudden 
change,  however  reasonable  its  direction,  must  in  this  way 
discredit  its  authors  and  bring  about  reaction.  The  hand- 
working  classes  may  get  much  less  of  the  economic  product 
than  they  ought  to;  but  they  are  not  so  badly  off  that  they 
cannot  be  worse,  and,  unless  they  lose  their  heads,  will 
always  unite  with  other  classes  to  preserve  that  state  of 
order  which  is  the  guaranty  of  what  they  have.  Anarchy 
would  benefit  no  one,  unless  criminals,  and  anything  re- 
sembling a  general  strike  I  take  to  be  a  childish  expedient 
not  likely  to  be  countenanced  by  the  more  sober  and  hard- 
headed  leaders  of  the  labor  movement.  All  solid  better- 
ment of  the  workers  must  be  based  on  and  get  its  nourish- 
ment from  the  existing  system  of  production,  which  must 
only  gradually  be  changed,  however  defective  it  may 
be.  The  success  of  strikes,  and  of  all  similar  tactics, 
depends,  in  the  nature  of  things,  on  their  being  partial, 
and  drawing  support  from  the  undisturbed  remainder 
of  the  process.  It  is  the  same  principle  of  mingling 
stability  with  improvement  which  governs  progress 
everywhere. 

And,  finally,  effective  organization  on  the  part  of  the 
less  privileged  classes  goes  along  with  intelligence,  with 
training  in  orderly  methods  of  self-assertion,  and  with  edu- 
cation in  the  necessity  of  patience  and  compromise.  The 
more  real  ^ower  they  get,,  the  more  conservatively,  as  a 
rule,  they  use  it.  Where  free  speech  exists  there  will  al- 
ways be  a  noisy  party  advocating  precipitate  change  (and 
a  timid  party  who  are  afraid  of  them),  but  the  more  the 

277 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

people  are  trained  in  real  democracy  the  less  will  be  the 
influence  of  this  element. 

Whatever  divisions  there  may  be  in  our  society,  it  is 
quite  enough  an  organic  whole  to  unite  in  casting  out 
tendencies  that  are  clearly  anarchic.  And  it  is  also  evident 
that  such  tendencies  are  to  be  looked  for  at  least  as  much 
among  the  rich  as  among  the  poor.  If  we  have  at  one 
extreme  anarchists  who  would  like  to  despoil  other  people, 
we  have,  at  the  other,  monopolists  and  financiers  who 
actually  do  so. 

It  is  a  common  opinion  that  the  swa^  of  riches  over  the 
human  mind  is  greater  in  our  time  than  previously,  and 
greater  in  America  than  elsewhere.  How  far  is  this  really 
the  case  ? 

To  understand  this  matter  we  must  not  forget  that  the 
ardor  of  the  chase — as  in  a  fox  hunt — may  have  little  to 
do  with  the  value  of  the  quarry.  The  former,  certainly, 
was  never  so  great  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth  as  here  and 
now;  chiefly  because  the  commercial  trend  of  the  times, 
due  to  a  variety  of  causes,  supplies  unequalled  opportu- 
nities and  incitements  to  engage  in  the  money-game.  In 
this,  therefore,  the  competitive  zeal  of  an  energetic  people 
finds  its  main  expression.  But  to  say  that  wealth  stands 
for  more  in  the  inner  thought  of  men,  that  to  have  or  not 
to  have  it  makes  a  greater  intrinsic  difference,  is  another 
and  a  questionable  proposition,  which  I  am  inclined  to 
think  opposite  to  the  truth.  Such  spiritual  value  as 
personal  wealth  has  comes  from  its  power  over  the  means 
of  spiritual  development.  It  is,  therefore,  diminished  by 
everything  which  tends  to  make  those  means  common 

278 


ON  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

property:  and  the  new  order  has  this  tendency.  When 
money  was  the  only  way  to  education,  to  choice  of  occu- 
pation, to  books,  leisure  and  variety  of  intercourse,  it  was 
essential  to  the  intellectual  life;  there  was  no  belonging 
to  the  cultured  class  without  it.  But  with  free  schools 
and  libraries,  the  diffusion  of  magazines  and  newspapers^ 
cheap  travel,  less  stupefying  labor  and  shorter  hours, 
culture  opportunity  is  more  and  more  extended,  and  the 
best  goods  of  life  are  opened,  if  not  to  all,  yet  to  an  ever- 
growing proportion.  Men  of  the  humblest  occupations 
can  and  do  become  gentlemen  and  scholars.  Indeed, 
people  are  coming  more  and  more  to  think  that  exclusive 
advantages  are  uncongenial  to  real  culture,  since  the  deep- 
est insight  into  humanity  can  belong  only  to  those  who 
share  and  reflect  upon  the  common  life. 

The  effect  is  that  wealth  is  shorn  of  much  of  that  pres- 
tige of  knowledge,  breeding  and  opportunity  which  al- 
ways meant  more  than  its  material  power.  The  intel- 
lectual and  spiritual  centre  of  gravity,  like  the  political, 
sinks  down  into  the  masses  of  the  people.  Though  our 
rich  are  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice,  they  mean  less 
to  the  inner  life  of  the  time,  exercise  less  spiritual  authority, 
perhaps,  than  the  corresponding  class  in  any  older  society. 
They  are  the  objects  of  popular  curiosity,  resentment,  ad- 
miration or  envy,  rather  than  the  moral  deference  given 
to  a  real  aristocracy.  They  are  not  taken  too  seriously. 
Indeed,  there  could  be  no  better  proof  that  the  rich  are 
no  overwhelming  power  with  us  than  the  amount  of 
good-natured  ridicule  expended  upon  them.  Were  they 
really  a  dominant  order,  the  ridicule,  if  ventured  at  all, 
would  not  be  good-natured.     Their  ascendency  is  great 

279 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

when  compared  with  a  theory  of  equality — and  in  this 
sense  the  remarks  in  the  last  chapter  should  be  understood 
— but  small  compared  with  that  of  the  ruling  classes  of 
the  Old  World. 

Over  a  class  of  frenzied  gold-seekers,  rich  or  poor, 
chiefly  in  the  towns,  the  money-idea  is  no  doubt  ascendant; 
but  if  you  approach  the  ordinary  farmer,  mechanic  or 
sober  tradesman  you  are  likely  to  find  that  he  sets  no  high 
rate  on  wealth  beyond  what  is  necessary  for  the  frugal 
support  of  a  family,  and  that  he  neither  admires  nor 
envies  the  rich,  but  looks  at  the  millionaire  and  thinks: 
*' After  all,  it  isn't  life.  What  does  he  get  out  of  it  more 
than  the  rest  of  us?"  The  typical  American  is  an  ideal- 
ist, and  the  people  he  looks  up  to  are  those  who  stand  in 
some  way  for  the  ideal  life — or  whom  he  supposes  to  do 
so — most  commonly  statesmen,  but  often  writers,  scientists 
or  teachers.  Education  and  culture,  as  Mr.  Bryce  and 
others  have  noticed,  is  cherished  by  plain  people  all  over 
the  land,  often  to  a  degree  that  puts  to  shame  its  professed 
representatives. 

We  find,  then,  that  agitators  who  strive  to  incite  the 
people  against  the  rich  encounter  with  disgust  an  ideal- 
ism which  refuses  to  believe  that  their  advantages  are  ex- 
travagantly great;  and  one  of  the  main  grievances  of  such 
men  is  what  they  look  upon  as  the  folly  or  lack  of  spirit  of 
the  poor  in  this  regard. 

Never  before,  probably,  was  there  so  large  a  class  of 
people  who,  having  riches,  feel  that  they  are  a  doubtful  bless- 
ing, especially  in  relation  to  the  nurture  of  children.  Many 
a  successful  man  is  at  his  wits'  end  to  give  his  children  those 
advantages  of  enforced  industry,  frugality  and  aelf-con- 

280 


ON  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

trol  which  he  himself  enjoyed.  One  of  the  richest  men 
of  the  day  holds  that  accumulations  are  generally  bad  for 
the  children,  as  well  as  for  society,  and  favors  almost  un- 
limited graduated  taxation  of  inheritances.*  According 
to  the  philosophy  which  he  supports  by  practice  as  well  as 
theory,  the  man  who  finds  himself  rich  is  to  live  modestly 
and  use  his  surplus  as  a  trust  fund  for  the  benefit  of  the 
public. 

What  would  a  man  wish  for  his  own  son,  if  he  could 
choose?  First,  no  doubt,  some  high  and  engrossing 
purpose,  which  should  fill  his  life  with  the  sense  of  worthy 
striving  and  aspiration.  After  this  he  would  wish  for 
health,  friends,  peace  of  mind,  the  enjoyment  of  books, 
a  happy  family  life  and  material  comfort.  But  the  last, 
beyond  that  degree  which  even  unskilled  labor  should 
bring,  he  would  regard  as  of  secondary  importance.  Not 
a  straitened  house  and  table  but  a  straitened  soul  is  the 
real  evil,  and  the  two  are  more  separable  now  than  for- 
merly. The  more  a  real  democracy  prevails,  the  less  is 
the  spiritual  ascendency  of  riches. 

There  is,  for  instance,  no  such  settled  and  institutional 
deference  to  wealth  in  the  United  States  as  there  seems  to 
be  in  England;  the  reason  being,  in  part,  that  where  there 
are  inherited  classes  there  ^are  also  class  standards  of 
living,  costly  in  the  upper  class,  to  which  those  who  would 
live  in  good  company  are  under  pressure  to  conform.  In 
England  there  is  actually  a  ruling  order,  however  ill 
defined,  which  is  generally  looked  up  to  and  membership 
in  which  is  apparently  the  ambition  of  a  large  majority 
*  Andrew  Carnegie. 
281 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

of  all  aspiring  men  who  do  not  belong  to  it  by  birth.  Its 
habits  and  standards  are  such  that  only  the  comparatively 
rich  can  be  at  home  in  it.  There  is  nothing  correspond- 
ing to  this  with  us.  We  have  richer  men  and  the  pursuit 
of  riches  is  an  even  livelier  game,  but  there  is  no  such  as- 
cendency in  wealth,  no  such  feeling  that  one  must  be  rich  to 
be  respectable^  With  us,  if  people  have  money  they  enjoy 
it;  if  not,  they  manage  with  what  they  have,  neither  regard- 
ing themselves  nor  regarded  by  others  as  essentially  inferior. 

It  is  also  a  general  feeling  here  that  wealth  should  not 
be  a  controlling  factor  in  marriage,  and  it  is  not  common 
for  American  parents  to  object  seriously  to  a  proposed 
son-in-law  (much  less  a  daughter-in-law)  on  the  mere 
ground  of  lack  of  means,  apart  from  his  capacity  to  earn 
a  living.  The  matter-of-fact  mercenariness  in  this  re- 
gard which,  as  we  are  led  to  believe  by  the  novelists,  pre- 
vails in  the  upper  circles  of  England,  is  as  yet  somewhat 
shocking  to  the  American  mind. 

Hereditary  titles,  sometimes  imagined  to  be  a  counter- 
poise to  the  ascendency  of  wealth,  are  really,  in  our  time 
at  least,  a  support  and  sanction  to  it,  giving  it  an  official 
standing  and  permanence  it  cannot  have  in  democracy. 
We  understand  that  in  England  wealth — with  tact, 
patience  and  maybe  political  services — will  procure  a 
title,  which,  unlike  anything  one  can  get  for  money  in 
America,  is  indestructible  by  vice  and  folly,  and  can  be 
used  over  and  over  to  buy  wealth  in  marriage.  ''Nothing 
works  better  in  America  than  the  promptness  with  which 
the  degenerate  scions  of  honored  parents  drop  out  of 
sight."  *  Rank  is  not  an  offset  but  a  reward  and  bribe  to 
*  T.  W.  Higginson,  Book  and  Heart,  145. 

282 


ON  THE  ASCENDENCY  OF  A  CAPITALIST  CLASS 

wealth;  perhaps  the  only  merit  that  can  be  claimed  for 
it  in  this  connection  being  that  the  desire  and  deference 
for  it  imposes  a  certain  discipline  on  the  arrogance  of 
newly  acquired  riches. 

The  English  idea  that  those  in  high  offices  should  have 
a  magnificent  style  of  living,  ''becoming  to  their  station/' 
is  also  one  that  goes  with  caste  feeling.  It  makes  it  hardly 
decent  for  the  poor  to  hold  such  offices,  and  is  almost  ab- 
sent here,  where,  if  riches  are  important  to  political  suc- 
cess, the  condition  is  one  of  which  the  people  do  not  ap- 
prove and  would  gladly  dispense  with. 

I  doubt  whether  the  whole  conception  which  imputes 
merit  to  wealth  and  seeks  at  least  the  appearance  of  the 
latter  in  modes  of  dress,  attendance  and  the  like,  is  not 
stronger  everywhere  in  Europe  than  in  the  United  States. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
THE  ORGANIZATION  OF  THE  ILL-PAID  CLASSES 

The  Need  of  Class  Organization — Uses  and  Dangers  of  Unions 
— General  Disposition  of  the  Hand-Working  Classes. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  book  to  add  anything  to 
the  merely  controversial  literature  of  the  time;  and  in 
treating  the  present  topic  I  intend  no  more  than  to  state 
a  few  simple  and  perhaps  obvious  principles  designed  to 
connect  it  with  our  general  line  of  thought. 

It  is  quite  apparent  that  an  organized  and  intelligent 
class-consciousness  in  the  hand-working  people  is  one  of 
the  primary  needs  of  a  democratic  society.  In  so  far  as 
this  part  of  the  people  is  lacking  in  a  knowledge  of  its 
situation  and  in  the  practice  of  orderly  self-assertion,  a  real 
freedom  will  also  be  lacking,  and  we  shall  have  some  kind 
of  subjection  in  its  place;  freedom  being  impossible  with- 
out group  organization.  That  industrial  classes  exist — in 
the  sense  already  explained  * — cannot  well  be  denied,  and 
existing  they  ought  to  be  conscious  and  self-directing. 

The  most  obvious  need_of  class-consciousness  is  for 
self-assertion  against  the  pressure  of  other  classes ^  and 
this  is  both  most  necessary  and  most  difficult  with  those 
who  lack  wealth  and  the  command  over  organized  forces 
which  it  implies.  In  a  free  society,  especially,  the  Lord 
helps  those  who  help  themselves;  and  those  who  are  weak 
*  See  chanter  21. 
Zd4 


THE  ORGANIZATION   OF  THE  ILL-PAID  CLASSES 

in  money  must  be  strong  in  union,  and  guist  also  exert 
themselves  to  make  good  any  deficiency  in  leadership  that 

comes  from  ability  desfrting  tn  mnrp  f^yoypH  pja^sses. 

That  the  dominant  power  of  wealth  has  an  oppressive 
action,  for  the  most  part  involuntary,  upon  the  people 
below,  will  hardly  be  denied  by  any  competent  student. 
The  industrial  progress  of  our  time  is  accompanied  by 
sufferings  that  are  involved  with  the  progress.  These 
sufferings — at  least  in  their  more  tangible  forms — fall  al- 
most wholly  upon  the  poorer  classes,  while  the  richer  get 
a  larger  share  of  the  increased  product  which  the  progress 
brings.  By  sufferings  I  mean  not  only  the  physical  hard- 
ship and  liability  to  disease,  early  decay,  and  mutilation 
or  death  by  accident,  which  fall  to  the  hand-worker;  but 
also  the  debasement  of  children  by  premature  and  stunting 
labor,  the  comparative  lack  of  intellectual  and  social  op- 
portunities, the  ugly  and  discouraging  surroundings,  and 
the  insecurity  of  employment,  to  which  he  and  his  are  sub- 
ject. There  is  no  purpose  to  inflict  these  things;  but  they 
are  inflicted,  and  the  only  remedy  is  a  public  conscious- 
ness, especially  in  the  classes  who  suffer  from  them,  of 
their  causes  and  the  means  by  which  they  can  be  done 
away  with. 

The  principal  expressions  of  class-consciousness  in  the 
hand-working  classes  in  our  day  are  labor  unions  and  that 
wider,  vaguer,  more  philosophical  or  religious  movement, 
too  various  for  definition,  which  is  known  as  socialism. 
Regarding  the  latter  I  will  only  say  at  present  that  it  in- 
cludes much  of  what  is  most  vital  in  the  contemporary 
working  of  the  democratic  spirit;   the  large  problems  with 

285 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

which  its  doctrines  deal  I  prefer  to  discuss  in  my  own 
way. 

Labor  unions  are  a  simpler  matter.  They  have  arisen 
out  of  the  urgent  need  of  self-defence^  not  so  much  against, 
deliberate  aggression  as  against  brutal  confusion  and 
neglect.  The  industrial  population  has  been  tossed  about 
I  on  the  swirl  of  economic  change  like  so  much  sawdust  on 
a  river,  sometimes  prosperous,  sometimes  miserable,  never 
secure,  and  living  largely  under  degrading,  inhuman  con- 
ditions. Against  this  state  of  things  the  higher  class  of 
artisans — as  measured  by  skill,  wages  and  general  in- 
telligence— have  made  a  partly  successful  struggle  through 
cooperation  in  associations,  which,  however,  include  much 
less  than  half  of  those  who  might  be  expected  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  them.*  That  they  are  an  effective  means  of 
class  self-assertion  is  evident  from  the  antagonism  they 
have  aroused. 

Besides  their  primary  function  of  group-bargaining, 
which  has  come  to  be  generally  recognized  as  essential, 
unions  are  performing  a  variety  of  services  hardly  less 
important  to  their  members,  and  serviceable  to  society  at 
large.  In  the  way  of  influencing  legislation  they  have 
probably  done  more  than  all  other  agencies  together  to 
combat  child-labor,  excessive  hours,  and  other  inhuman 
and  degrading  kinds  of  work;  also  to  provide  for  safe- 
guards against  accident,  for  proper  sanitation  of  factories, 
and  the  like.  In  this  field  their  work  is  as  much  defensive 
as  aggressive,  since  employing  interests,  on  the  other  side, 

*  Professor  John  R.  Commons  (Publications  of  the  American 
Sociological  Society,  vol.  ii,  p.  141)  estimates  2,000,000  members  of 
unions  out  of  6,000,000  wage-earners  "available  for  class  conflict." 

286 


THE  ORGANIZATION  OF  THE  ILL-PAID  CLASSES 

are  constantly  influencing  legislation  and  administration 
to  their  own  advantage. 

Their  function  as  spheres  of  fellowship  and  self-devei- 
opment  is  equally  vital  and  less  understood.  To  have  a 
we-feehng,  to  live  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  one's  fellows, 
is  the  only  human  Hfe;  we  all  need  it  to  keep  us  from 
selfishness,  sensuality  and  despair,  and  the  hand-worker 
needs  it  even  more  than  the  rest  of  us.  Usually  without 
pecuniary  resource  and  insecure  of  his  job  and  his  home, 
he  is,  in  isolation,  miserably  weak  and  in  a  way  to  be  cowed 
and  unmanned  by  misfortune  or  mere  apprehension. 
Drifting  about  in  a  confused  society,  unimportant,  ap- 
parently, to  the  rest  of  the  world,  it  is  no  wonder  if  he 
feels 

*'  I  am  no  link  of  Thy  great  chain,"  * 

and  loses  faith  in  himself,  in  life  and  in  God.  The  union 
makes  him  feel  that  he  is  part  of  a  whole,  one  of  a  fellow- 
ship, that  there  are  those  who  will  stand  by  him  in  trouble, 
that  he  counts  for  something  in  the  great  life.  He  gets 
from  it  that  thrill  of  broader  sentiment,  the  same  in  kind 
that  men  get  in  fighting  for  their  country;  his  self  is  en- 
larged and  enriched  and  his  imagination  fed  with  objects, 
comparatively,  "immense  and  eternal." 

Moreover,  the  life  of  labor  unions  and  other  class  asso- 
ciations, through  the  training  which  it  gives  in  democratic 
organization  and  discipline,  is  perhaps  the  chief  guaranty 
of  the  healthy  political  development  of  the  hand-working 
class — especially  those  imported  from  non-democratic 
civilizations — and  the  surest  barrier  against  recklessness 
and  disorder.  That  their  members  get  this  training  will 
*  George  Herbert. 
287 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

be  evident  to  anyone  who  studies  their  working,  and  it  is 
not  apparent  that  they  would  get  it  in  any  other  way.  Men 
learn  most  in  acting  for  purposes  which  they  understand 
and  are  interested  in,  and  this  is  more  certain  to  be  the 
case  with  economic  aims  than  with  any  other. 

Thus,  if  unions  should  never  raise  wages  or  shorten 
hours,  they  would  yet  be  invaluable  to  the  manhood  of 
their  members.  At  worst,  they  ensure  the  joy  of  an  open 
fight  and  of  companionship  in  defeat.  Self-assertion 
through  voluntary  organization  is  of  the  essence  of  democ- 
racy, and  if  any  part  of  the  people  proves  incapable  of  it 
it  is  a  bad  sign  for  the  country.  On  this  ground  alone  it 
would  seem  that  patriots  should  desire  to  see  organiza- 
tion of  this  sort  extend  throughout  the  industrial  popula- 
tion. 

The  danger  of  these  associations  is  that  w^hich  besets 
human  nature  everywhere — the  selfish  use  of  power.  It 
is  feared  with  reason  that  if  they  have  too  much  their  own 
way  they  will  monopolize  opportunity  by  restricting  ap- 
prenticeship and  limiting  the  number  of  their  mem- 
bers; that  they  will  seek  their  ends  through  intimidation 
and  violence;  that  they  will  be  made  the  instruments  of 
corrupt  leaders.  These  and  similar  wrongs  have  from 
time  to  time  been  brought  home  to  them,  and,  unless  their 
members  are  superior  to  the  common  run  of  men,  they 
are  such  as  must  be  expected.  But  it  would  be  a  mistake 
to  regard  these  or  any  other  kinds  of  injustice  as  a  part  of 
the  essential  policy  of  unions.  They  are  feeling  their  way 
in  a  human,  fallible  manner,  and  their  eventual  policy 
will  be  determined  by  what,  in  the  way  of  class  advance- 
ment, they  find  by  experience  to  be  practicable.     In  so 

288 


THE  ORGANIZATION  OF  THE  ILL-PAID   CLASSES 

far  as  they  attempt  things  that  are  unjust  we  may  expect 
them,  in  the  long  run,  to  fail,  through  the  resistance  of 
others  and  through  the  awakening  of  their  own  con- 
sciences. It  is  the  part  of  other  people  to  check  their  ex- 
cesses and  cherish  their  benefits. 

In  general  no  sort  of  persons  mean  better  than  hand- 
laboring  men.  They  are  simple,  honest  people,  as  a  rule, 
with  that  bent  toward  integrity  which  is  fostered  by  work- 
ing in  wood  and  iron  and  often  lost  in  the  subtleties 
of  business.  Moreover,  their  experience  is  such  as  to 
develop  a  sense  of  the  brotherhood  of  man  and  a  desire 
to  realize  it  in  institutions.  Not  having  enjoyed  the 
artificial  support  of  accumulated  property,  they  have 
the  more  reason  to  know  the  dependence  of  each  on  his 
fellows.  Nor  have  they  any  great  hopes  of  personal  ag- 
grandizement to  isolate  them  and  pamper  their  self-con- 
sciousness. 

To  these  we  may  add  that  offences  from  this  quarter 
are  likely  to  be  more  shocking  and  less  dangerous  than 
those  of  a  more  sophisticated  sort  of  people.  Occasional 
outbreaks  of  violence  alarm  us  and  call  for  prompt  enforce- 
ment of  law,  but  are  not  a  serious  menace  to  society,  be- 
cause general  sentiment  and  all  established  interests  are 
against  them;  while  the  subtle,  respectable,  systematic 
corruption  by  the  rich  and  powerful  threatens  the  very 
being  of  democracy. 

The  most  deplorable  fact  about  labor  unions  is  that 
they  embrace  so  small  a  proportion  of  those  that  need  their 
benefits.  How  far  into  the  shifting  masses  of  unskilled 
labor  effective  organization  can  extend  only  time  will  show. 

289 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
POVERTY 

The  Meaning  of  Poverty — Personal  and  General  Causes-— 
Poverty  in  a  Prosperous  Society  Due  Chiefly  to  Mal- 
adjustment — Are  the  Poor  the  "Unfit"? — Who  is  to 
Blame  for  Poverty? — Attitude  of  Society  Toward  the 
Poor — Fundamental  Remedies. 

The  most  practical  definition  of  poverty  is  that  now 
widely  adopted  which  relates  it  to  function,  and  calls  those 
the  poor  whose  income  is  not  sufficient  to  keep  up  their 
health  and  working  efficiency.  This  may  be  vague  but  is 
not  too  much  so  to  be  useful,  and  is  capable  of  becom- 
ing quite  definite  through  exact  inquiry.  At  least  it  in- 
dicates roughly  a  considerable  portion  of  the  people  who 
are  poor  in  an  obvious  and  momentous  sense  of  the 
word. 

Being  undernourished,  the  poor  lack  energy,  physical, 
intellectual  and  moral.  ^Vhatever  the  original  cause  of 
their  poverty,  they  cannot,  being  poor,  work  so  hard,  think 
so  clearly,  plan  so  hopefully,  or  resist  temptation  with  so 
much  steadfastness  as  those  who  have  the  primary  means 
of  keeping  themselves  in  sound  condition. 

Moreover,  the  lack  of  adequate  food,  clothing  and  hous- 
ing commonly  implies  other  lacks,  among  which  are  poor 
early  training  and  education,  the  absence  of  contact  vnth 
elevating  and  inspiring  personalities,  a  narrow  outlook 
upon  the  world,  and,  in  short,  a  general  lack  of  social  op- 
portunity. 

290 


POVERTY 

The  poor  are  not  a  class  in  the  sense  of  having  a  dis- 
tinct psychical  organization.  Absorbed  in  a  discouraging 
material  struggle,  or  perhaps  in  the  sensuality  and  apathy 
to  which  a  discouraging  outlook  is  apt  to  lead,  they  have 
no  spirit  or  surplus  energy  adequate  to  effectual  cooper- 
ative endeavor  on  their  own  initiative,  or  even  to  grasp- 
ing the  benefits  of  existing  organization.  As  a  rule  they 
get  far  less  from  the  law  and  its  administration,  from  the 
church,  the  schools,  the  public  libraries  and  the  like,  than 
the  classes  more  capable  of  self-assertion,  and  this  is  par- 
ticularly true  in  a  laissez-faire  democracy,  such  as  ours, 
which  gives  rights  pretty  much  in  proportion  to  the  vigor 
with  which  they  are  demanded.  It  is  this  lack  of  common 
consciousness  and  purpose  that  explains  the  ease  with 
which,  in  all  ages,  the  poor  have  been  governed,  not  to 
say  exploited,  from  above.  And  if  they  are  getting  some 
consciousness  and  purpose  at  the  present  time,  it  is  largely 
for  the  very  reason  that  they  are  less  inveterately  and  hope- 
lessly poor  now  than  in  the  past. 

The  familiar  question  whether  poverty  is  due  to  personal 
or  social  causes  is  in  itself  somewhat  fallacious,  as  smack- 
ing of  a  philosophy  that  does  not  see  that  the  personal 
and  social  are  inseparable.  Everything  in  personality  has 
roots  in  social  conditions,  past  or  present.  So  personal 
poverty  is  part  of  an  organic  whole,  the  effect  in  one  way 
or  another,  by  heredity  or  influence,  of  the  general  life. 
The  question  has  significance,  however,  when  we  under- 
stand it  as  asking  whether  or  not  the  cause  is  so  fixed  in 
personality  that  it  cannot  be  counteracted  by  social  in- 
fluences.    We  find  that  in  a  community  generally  prosper- 

291 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

ous  a  part  of  the  people — say  ten  per  cent. — are  poor  in  the 
urgent  sense  indicated  above.  The  practical  question 
is,  Are  these  people  poor  from  causes  so  established  in 
their  characters  (however  originating)  that  the  rest  of 
the  community  can  do  nothing  effectual  for  them,  or  are 
they  plastic  to  forces  which  might  raise  them  to  a  normal 
standard  of  living? 

As  to  this — leaving  out  the  various  extreme  opinions 
which  attend  all  such  questions — there  is  a  fair  measure 
of  agreement  among  competent  observers  somewhat  to 
the  following  effect:  There  is  a  considerable  number  of 
individuals  and  families  having  intrinsic  defects  of  char- 
acter which  must  always  keep  them  poor  so  long  as  they 
are  left  in  the  ordinary  degree  of  self-dependence.  The 
great  majority  of  the  poor,  however,  have  no  ineradicable 
personal  weakness  but  are  capable  of  responding  to  in- 
fluences which  might  raise  them  to  a  normal  standard  of 
living.  In  other  words,  the  nine-tenths  of  the  community 
which  is  not  poor  might  conceivably  bring  influences  to 
bear  which  would — in  a  healthy  manner  and  without  de- 
moralizing alms-giving — remove  all  but  a  small  part  of  the 
poverty  of  the  other  tenth.  It  is  only  a  question  of  putting 
into  the  matter  sufficient  knowledge  and  good  will.  As  to 
the  view,  still  not  uncommon,  that  the  laziness,  shiftless- 
ness  and  vice  of  the  poor  are  the  source  of  their  difficulties, 
it  may  be  said  that  these  traits,  so  far  as  they  exist,  are 
now  generally  regarded  by  competent  students  as  quite 
as  much  the  effect  as  the  cause  of  poverty.  If  a  man  is 
undervitalized  he  will  either  appear  lazy  or  will  exhaust 
himself  in  efforts  which  are  beyond  his  strength — the  latter 
being  common  with   those  of  a  nervous  temperament. 

292 


POVERTY 

Shiftlessness,  also,  is  the  natural  outcome  of  a  confused 
and  discouraging  experience,  especially  if  added  to  poor 
nutrition.  And  as  to  drink  and  other  sensual  vices,  it  is 
well  understood  that  they  are  the  logical  resource  of  those 
whose  life  does  not  meet  the  needs  of  h\iman  nature  in  the 
way  of  variety,  pleasantness  and  hope.  There  are  other 
causes  of  vice  besides  poverty,  as  appears  from  its  preva- 
lence among  the  unresourceful  rich,  but  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  good  nurture,  moderate  work,  wholesome 
amusement  and  a  hopeful  outlook  would  do  away  with 
a  great,  probably  the  greater,  part  of  it.  There  are,  no 
doubt,  among  the  poor,  as  among  the  well-to-do,  many 
cases  of  incurable  viciousness  and  incompetence,  but  it 
would  be  no  less  unjust  and  foolish  to  assume  that  any 
individual  is  of  this  sort  than  to  give  up  a  scarlet  fever 
patient  because  some  will  die  of  that  disease  in  spite  of 
the  best  treatment. 

I  find  that  the  ablest  and  most  experienced  workers 
have  generally  the  most  confidence  as  to  what  may  be  done 
even  with  the  apparently  lazy,  shiftless  or  vicious  by  bring- 
ing fresh  suggestions,  encouragements  and  opportunities 
to  bear  upon  them.  And  it  is  only  a  small  portion  of  the 
poor  that  are  even  apparently  lazy,  shiftless  or  vicious; 
the  majority  comparing  not  unfavorably  with  the  well- 
to-do  classes  in  these  respects. 

Leaving  aside  general  conditions  which  may  depress 
whole  nations  or  races,  the  main  cause  of  poverty  in  a 
prosperous  country  like  the  United  States  is  without 
doubt  some  sort  of  maladjustment  between  the  individual, 
or  the  family  or  neighborhood  group,  and  the  wider  com- 

293 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

munity,  by  reason  of  which  potential  capacity  does  not 
yield  its  proper  fruit  in  efficiency  and  coniFoft.  This  is 
evidently  the  case,  for  example,  with  the  sort  of  poverty 
most  familiar  in  our  American  cities;  that  due  to  the  trans- 
planting of  vast  numbers  of  Europeans  to  a  society,  not 
too  good  for  them  as  we  carelessly  assume,  but  out  of 
connection  with  their  habits  and  traditions.  The  Ital- 
ians, Slavs  and  Russian  Jews  who  just  now  throng  our 
cities  are  by  no  means  deficient,  on  the  whole,  either  in 
intelligence,  industry  or  thrift;  and  those  who  know  them 
best  find  them  prolific  in  some  qualities,  such  as  artistic 
sensibility  of  various  kinds,  in  which  America  is  otherwise 
rather  deficient.  But  the  process  of  adaptation  to  our  in- 
dustrial conditions  is  trying  and  leaves  many  in  poverty 
and  demoralization. 

Among  the  native  population  also,  poverty  and  the  moral 
degradation  which  is  often  found  with  it  is  due  largely, 
perhaps  chiefly,  to  various  kinds  of  maladjustment  be- 
tween the  working  classes  and  the  industrial  system — to 
loss  of  employment  from  periodical  depressions  or  from 
the  introduction  of  new  methods,  to  the  lack  of  provision 
for  industrial  education,  to  the  perils  attending  migration 
from  country  to  city,  and  so  on. 

\Miat  shall  we  say  of  the  doctrine  very  widely,  though 
perhaps  not  very  clearly,  held  that  the  poor  are  the  ''unfit" 
in  course  of  elimination,  and  are  suffering  the  painful  but 
necessary  consequences  of  an  inferiority  that  society  must 
get  rid  of  at  any  cost  ?  A  notion  of  this  kind  may  be  dis- 
covered in  the  minds  of  many  men  of  fair  intelligence, 
and  is  due  to  remote,  obscure  and  for  the  most  part 

294 


POVERTY 

mistaken  impressions  of  the  teaching  of  Malthus  and 
Darwin. 

The  unfit,  in  the  sense  of  Darwin  and  of  biology  in 
general,  are  those  whose  hereditary  type  is  so  unsuited 
to  the  conditions  of  life  that  it  tends  to  die  out,  or  at  least 
suffer  relative  diminution  in  numbers,  under  the  action 
of  these  conditions — as  white  families  tend  to  die  out  in  the 
tropics.  In  other  words,  they  have  an  inferiority  due  to 
heredity,  and  this  inferiority  is  of  such  a  character  that 
they  do  not  leave  as  many  children  to  continue  their  race 
as  do  those  of  a  superior  or  fitter  type. 

It  is  very  questionable  whether  any  great  part  of  the 
poor  answer  the  description  in  either  of  these  respects. 
As  to  the  first,  it  is  the  prevaiHng  opinion  with  those  most 
familiar  with  the  matter  that  their  inferiority,  except  possi- 
bly where  a  distinct  race  is  in  question,  as  with  the  Negroes, 
is  due  chiefly  to  deficient  nurture,  training  and  oppor- 
tunity, and  not  to  heredity.  This  view  is  supported  by 
the  fact  that  under  the  conditions  which  a  country  of  op- 
portunity, like  the  United  States,  affords,  great  masses  of 
people  rise  from  poverty  to  comfort,  and  many  of  them  to 
opulence,  showing  that  the  stock  was  as  capable  as  any. 
Something  of  this  sort  has  taken  place  with  German  and 
Irish  immigrants,  and  is  likely  to  take  place  with  Jews, 
Slavs  and  Italians. 

As  to  elimination,  it  is  well  known  that  only  poverty  of 
the  most  extreme  and  destructive  kinds  avails  to  restrict 
propagation,  and  that  the  moderately  poor  have  a  higher 
rate  of  increase  than  the  educated  and  well-to-do  classes. 
It  is,  in  fact,  far  more  the  latter  that  are  the  "unfit**  in  a 
biological  sense  than  the  former. 

295 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

The  truth  is  that  poverty  is  unfitnesai  ^U"  ^  social 
and  not  a  biological  sense.  That  is  to  say,  it  means  that 
feeding,  housing,  family  life,  education  and  opportunity 
are  below  the  standards  that  the  social  type  calls  for,  and 
that  their  existence  endangers  the  latter  in  a  manner  anal- 
ogous to  that  in  which  the  presence  of  inferior  cattle  in  a 
herd  endangers  the  biological  type.  They  threaten,  and 
to  a  greater  or  less  degree  actually  bring  about,  a  general 
degradation  of  the  community,  through  ignorance,  in- 
efficiency, disease,  vice,  bad  government,  class  hatred 
(or,  still  worse,  class  servility  and  arrogance)  and  so  on. 

But  since  the  unfitness  is  social  rather  than  biological, 
the  method  of  elimination  must  also  be  social,  namely,  the 
reform  of  housing  and  neighborhood  conditions,  improve- 
ment of  the  schools,  public  teaching  of  trades,  abolition 
of  child-labor  and  the  humanizing  of  industry. 

That  there  are  strains  of  biological  unfitness  among  the 
poor — hereditary  idiocy,  or  nervous  instability  tending 
toward  vice  and  crime,  for  example — is  not  to  be  denied, 
and  certainly  these  should  be  eliminated,  but  poverty,  far 
from  effecting  elimination,  is  perhaps  their  main  cause. 
This  will,  no  doubt,  be  duly  considered  by  students  of  the 
new  science  of  eugenics,  for  which  those  of  us  who  approach 
social  problems  from  another  point  of  view  may  yet  have 
the  highest  regard  and  expectation.  Only  a  shallow  sort 
of  mind  will  suppose  there  is  any  necessary  conflict  be- 
tween biological  and  psychological  sociology. 

As  to  the  question,  who  is  to  blame  for  poverty,  let  us 
remember  that  the  whole  question  of  praise  or  blame  is 
one  of  point  of  view  and  expediency.     Blame  the  poor  if  it 

296 


POVERTY 

will  do  them  any  good,  and  sometimes,  perhaps,  it  will,  but 
not  so  often  probably  as  the  well-to-do  are  apt  to  imagine. 
It  used  to  be  thought  that  people  must  always  be  held  re- 
sponsible for  their  condition,  and  that  the  main  if  not  the 
only  source  of  improvement  was  to  prod  their  sense  of 
this  responsibility;  but  more  thoughtful  observation 
shows  that  it  is  not  always  a  good  thing  to  urge  the  will. 
"Worry,"  says  an  experienced  worker,*  "is  one  of  the 
direct  and  all-pervading  causes  of  economic  dependence," 
and  he  asserts  that  "Take  no  thought  for  the  morrow" 
is  often  the  most  practical  advice.  Many  indications, 
among  them  the  spread  of  "mind-cure"  doctrines  and 
practices,  point  to  a  widely  felt  need  to  escape  from  the 
waste  and  unrest  of  an  over-stimulated  sense  of  responsi- 
bility. 

The  main  blame  for  poverty  must  rest  upon  the  pros- 
perous, because  they  have,  on  the  whole,  far  more  power 
in  the  premises.  However,  poverty  being  due  chiefly  to 
conditions  of  which  society  is  only  just  beginning  to  be- 
come conscious,  we  may  say  that  in  the  past  nobody  has 
been  to  blame.  It  is  an  unintended  result  of  the  eco- 
nomic struggle,  and  is  "done  with  the  elbows  rather  than 
the  fists."  But  consciousness  is  arising,  and  with  it  comes 
responsibility.  We  are  becoming  aware  of  what  makes 
poverty  and  how  it  can  in  great  part  be  done  away  with, 
and  if  accomplishment  does  not  keep  pace  with  knowledge 
we  shall  be  to  blame  indeed. 

All  parts  of  society  being  interdependent,  the  evils  of 

*  An  editorial  writer  in  Charities  and  the  Commons,  presumably 
Professor  Devine,  the  author  of  Principles  of  Relief,  and  other 
works  on  rational  charity. 

297 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

poverty  are  not  confined  to  one  class,  but  spread  through- 
out the  whole;  and  the  influence  of  a  low  standard  of  liv- 
ing is  felt  in  the  corruption  of  politics,  the  prevalence  of 
vice  and  the  inefficiency  of  labor.  The  cause  of  the  poor 
is  therefore  the  cause  of  all,  and  from  this  point  of  view 
those  of  them  who  in  spite  of  weakness,  discouragement 
and  neglect  keep  up  the  fight  for  a  decent  life  and  shun 
dependence  and  degradation,  should  be  regarded  as  heroic 
defenders  of  the  general  welfare,  deserving  praise  as  much 
as  the  soldier  at  the  front.  If  we  do  not  so  regard  them,  it 
is  because  of  our  lack  of  intelligence  and  social  conscious- 
ness. 

Iri^^ajruly  organic  society  the  struggles  and  suffering  of 
a  poor  class  would  arouse  the  same  affectionate  and  help- 
ing  solicitude  asjs_fel,t  when  one  member  of  a  family  falls 
ill.  In  contrast  to  this,  the  indifference  or  somewhat  con- 
temptuous pity  usually  felt  toward  poverty  indicates  a  low. 
state  of  community  sentiment,  a  deficient  we-feeling. 
Respect  and  appreciation  would  seem  to  be  due  to  those 
who  sustain  the  struggle  successfully,  and  sympathetic 
help  to  those  who  are  broken  down  by  it.  Especially 
brutal,  stupid  and  inexpedient — when  we  think  of  it — 
is  the  old  way  of  lumping  the  poor  with  the  degenerate  as 
''the  lower  class,"  and  either  leaving  them  to  bear  their 
discredited  existence  as  best  they  may,  or  dealing  out  to 
them  a  contemptuous  and  unbrotherly  alms.  The  con- 
fusion with  the  degraded  of  those  who  are  keeping  up  the 
social  standard  in  the  face  of  exceptional  diflSculties  is  as 
mean  and  deadly  a  wrong  as  could  well  be. 

In  so  far  as  there  is  an  effective,  self-conscious  Christian 
298 


POVERTY 

spirit  in  the  world,  thought,  feeling  and  effort  must  con- 
centrate wherever  there  is  injustice  or  avoidable  suffering. 
That  this  takes  place  so  slowly  and  imperfectly  in  the 
matter  of  poverty  is  largely  owing  to  a  lack  of  clear  percep- 
tion of  what  ought  to  be  done.  I  suppose  there  is  no 
doubt  that  if  mere  gifts  could  wipe  out  poverty  it  would  be 
wiped  out  at  once.  But  people  are  now,  for  the  most  part, 
just  sufficiently  informed  to  see  the  futility  of  ordinary 
alms,  without  being  instructed  in  the  possibilities  of  rational 
philanthropy.  Rational  philanthropy  is  coming,  however, 
along  with  an  excellent  literature  and  a  body  of  expert 
persons  who  unite  humane  enthusiasm  with  a  scientific 
spirit.* 

The  fundamental  remedy  for  poverty  is,  of  course, 
rational  organization  having  for  its  aim  the  control  of 
those  conditions,  near  and  remote,  which  lead  people  into 
it  and  prevent  their  getting  out.  The  most  radical  meas- 
ures are  those  which  are  educational  and  protective  in  a 
very  broad  and  searching  sense  of  the  words — the  human- 
ization  of  the  primary  school  system,  industrial  education, 
facilities  for  play,  physical  training  and  healthy  amuse- 
ment, good  housing,  the  restriction  by  law  of  child  labor  and 
of  all  vicious  and  unwholesome  conditions,  and,  finally, 
the  biological  precaution  of  stopping  the  propagation  of 
really  degenerate  types  of  men. 

*  "  Our  children's  children  may  learn  with  amazement  how  we 
thought  it  a  natural  social  phenomenon  that  men  should  die  in  their 
prime,  leaving  wives  and  children  in  terror  of  want;  that  acci- 
dents should  make  an  army  of  maimed  dependents;  that  there 
should  not  be  enough  houses  for  workers;  and  that  epidemics  should 
sweep  away  multitudes  as  autumn  frost  sweeps  away  summer  in- 
sects."    Simon  N.  Patten,  The  New  Basis  of  Civilization,  197 

299 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

If  we  can  give  the  children  of  the  poor  the  right  start  in 
life,  they  will  themselves,  in  most  cases,  develop  the  in- 
telligence, initiative,  self-control  and  power  of  organiza- 
tion which  will  enable  them  to  look  out  for  their  own  in- 
terests when  they  are  mature.  The  more  one  thinks  of 
these  questions  the  more  he  will  feel  that  they  can  only 
be  solved  by  helping  the  weaker  classes  to  a  position  where 
they  can  help  themselves. 


-S-^'-^  ^--^1} 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
HOSTILE  FEELING  BETWEEN  CLASSES 

Conditions  Producing  Class  Animosity — The  Spirit  op 
Service  Allays  Bitterness — Possible  Decrease  of  the 
Prestige  of  Wealth — Probability  of  a  More  Communal 
Spirit  in  the  Use  of  Wealth — Influence  of  Settled 
Rules  for  Social  Opposition — Importance  of  Face-to- 
Face  Discussion. 

Class  animosity  by  no  means  increases  in  proportion 
to  the  separation  of  classes.  On  the  contrary,  where  there 
is  a  definite  and  recognized  class  system  which  no  one  thinks  * 
of  breaking  down,  a  main  cause  of  arrogance  and  jealousy  ^ 
is  absent.  Every  one  takes  his  position  for  granted  and  ^ 
is  not  concerned  to  assert  or  improve  it.  In  Spain,  it  is 
said,  "you  may  give  the  inch  to  any  peasant;  he  is  sure  to 
be  a  gentleman,  and  he  never  thinks  of  taking  the  ell." 
So  in  an  English  tale,  written  about  1875, 1  find  the  follow- 
ing: *'The  peasantry  and  little  people  in  country  places 
like  to  feel  the  gentry  far  above  them.  They  do  not  care 
to  be  caught  up  into  the  empyrean  of  an  equal  humanity, 
but  enjoy  the  poetry  of  their  self-abasement  in  the  belief 
that  their  superiors  are  indeed  their  betters."  So  at  the 
South  there  was  a  kind  of  fellowship  between  the  races 
under  slavery  which  present  conditions  make  more  difficult. 
A  settled  inequality  is  the  next  best  thing,  for  intercourse, 
to  equality. 

But  where  the  ideal  of  equaHty  has  entered,  even  slight 
differences  may  be  resented,  and  class  feeling  is  most 
bitter,  probably,  where  this  ideal  is  strong  but  has  no  regu- 

301 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

lar  and  hopeful  methods  of  asserting  itself.  In  that  case 
aspiration  turns  sour  and  generates  hateful  passions. 
Caste  countries  are  safe  from  this  by  lacking  the  ideal  of 
equality,  democracies  by  partly  realizing  it.  But  in  Ger- 
many, for  instance,  where  there  is  a  fierce  democratic 
propaganda  on  the  one  hand,  and  a  stone  wall  of  military 
and  aristocratic  institutions  on  the  other,  one  may  feel  a 
class  bitterness  that  we  hardly  know  in  America.  And  in 
England  also,  at  the  present  time,  when  classes  are  still 
recognized  but  very  ill-defined,  there  seems  to  be  much 
of  an  uneasy  preoccupation  about  rank,  and  of  the  el- 
bowing, snubbing  and  suspicion  that  go  "\;vith  it.  People 
appear  to  be  more  concerned  with  trying  to  get  into  a  set 
above  them,  or  repressing  others  who  are  pushing  up  from 
below,  than  with  us.  In  America  social  position  exists, 
but,  having  no  such  definite  symbols  as  in  England,  is  for 
the  most  part  too  intangible  to  give  rise  to  snobbery,  which 
is  based  on  titles  and  other  externalities  which  men  may 
covet  or  gloat  over  in  a  way  hardly  possible  when  the  line 
is  merely  one  of  opinion,  congeniahty  and  character. 

The  feeling  between  classes  will  not  be  very  bitter  so 
long  as  the  ideal  of  service  is  present  in  all  and  mutually 
recognized.  And  it  is  the  tendency  of  the  democratic 
spirit — very  imperfectly  worked  out  as  yet — to  raise  this 
ideal  above  all  others  and  make  it  a  common  standard  of 
conduct.  Thus  Montesquieu,  describing  an  ideal  de- 
mocracy, says  that  ambition  is  limited  "  to  the  sole  desire^ 
to  the  sole  happiness,  of  doing  greater  services  to  our  coun- 
try than  the  rest  of  our  fellow  citizens.  They  cannot  all 
render  her  equal  services,  but  they  all  ought  to  serve  her 

302 


HOSTILE  FEELING  BETWEEN  CLASSES 

with  equal  alacrity."  He  thinks  also  that  the  love  of  fru- 
gality, by  which  he  means  compunction  in  material  self- 
indulgence,  ''limits  the  desire  of  having  to  the  study  of 
procuring  necessities  to  our  family  and  superfluities  to 
our  country."*  If  it  were  indeed  so  in  our  own  world, 
there  would  be  no  danger  of  a  class  conflict. 
^  Possibly  all  states  of  opinion  by  which  any  service  is 
despised  are  survivals  from  a  caste  society,  and  reminiscent 
of  the  domination  of  one  order  over  another — just  as 
slavery  has  left  a  feeling  in  the  South  that  hand  labor  is  de- 
grading. So  soon  as  all  kinds  of  workers  share  freely  in 
the  social  and  political  order,  all  work  must  be  respected. 
The  social  prestige  of  idleness,  of  '^  conspicuous  leisure," 
that  still  exists  in  the  Old  World,  is  evidently  a  survival  of 
this  sort,  and  it  can  hardly  happen  in  the  democratic 
future  that  **  people  will  let  their  nails  grow  that  all  may 
see  they  do  not  work."  ''I  do  not  call  one  greater  and 
one  smaller,"  says  Whitman,  "that  which  fills  its  period 
and  place  is  equal  to  any."t  I  think,  however,  that  there 
will  always  be  especial  esteem  for  some  sorts  of  achieve- 
ment, but  the  grounds  for  this  will,  more  and  more,  be 
distinction  in  the  common  service. 

The  excessive  prestige  of  wealth,  along  with  much  of 
the  ill  feeling  which  it  involves,  is  also,  in  my  opinion, 
rather  a  legacy  from  caste  society  than  a  trait  congenial 
to  democracy.  I  have  tried  to  show  that  the  ascendency 
of  riches  is  really  greater  in  the  older  and  less  democratic 
societies;    and  it  survives  in  democracy  as  much  as  it 

*  The  Spirit  of  Laws,  book  v,  chap.  3. 
t  Leaves  of  Grass,  71. 

303 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

does  partly  because  of  the  tradition  that  associates  wealth 
with  an  upper  caste,  and  pardy  because  other  ideals  are 
as  yet  crude  and  unorganized.  A  real  democracy  of 
sentiment  and  action,  a  renewed  Christianity  and  a  re- 
newed art  might  make  life  beautiful  and  hopeful  for  those 
who  have  littls  money  without  diminishing  the  whole- 
some operation  of  the  desire  for  gain.  At  present  the 
common  man  is  impoverished  not  merely  by  an  absolute 
want  of  money  but  by  a  current  way  of  thinking  which 
makes  pecuniary  success  the  standard  of  merit,  and  so 
makes  him  feel  that  failure  to  get  money  is  failure  of  life. 
As  we  no  longer  feel  much  admiration  for  mere  physical 
prowess,  apart  from  the  use  that  is  made  of  it,  so  it  seems 
natural  that  the  same  should  come  true  of  mere  pecuniary 
strength.  The  mind  of  a  child,  or  of  any  naive  person, 
bases  consideration  chiefly  on  function,  on  what  a  man 
can  do  in  the  common  life,  and  it  is  in  the  line  of  demo- 
cratic development  that  we  should  return  toward  this 
simple  and  human  view. 

It  is  in  accord  with  this  movement  that  children  of  all 
classes  are  more  and  more  taught  the  use  of  tools,  cooking 
and  other  primary  arts  of  life.  This  not  only  makes  for 
economy  and  independence,  but  educates  the  ''instinct 
of  workmanship,"  leading  us  to  feel  an  interest  in  all  good 
work  and  a  respect  for  those  who  do  it. 

The  main  need  of  men  is  life,  self-expression,  not  lux- 
ury, and  if  self-expression  can  be  made  general  material 
inequalities  alone  will  excite  but  little  resentment. 

As  to  the  use  of  wealth  we  may  expect  a  growing  sense 
of  social  responsibility,  of  which  thereare  already  cheerful 


HOSTILE  FEELING  BETWEEN  CLASSES 

indications.  Since  it  is  no  longer  respectable  to  be  idle, 
why  may  we  not  hope  that  it  will  presently  cease  to  be  re- 
spectable to  indulge  one's  lower  self  in  other  ways — in 
pecuniary  greed,  in  luxurious  eating,  in  display,  rich 
clothes  and  other  costly  and  exclusive  pleasures  ? 

We  must  not,  however,  be  so  optimistic  as  to  overlook 
the  ease  with  which  narrow  or  selfish  interests  may  form 
special  groups  of  their  own,  encouraging  one  another  in 
greed  or  luxury  to  the  neglect  of  the  common  life.  Such 
associations  cannot  altogether  shut  out  general  sentiment, 
but  they  can  and  do  so  far  deaden  its  influence  that  the 
more  hardened  or  frivolous  are  practically  unconscious 
of  it.  While  there  are  some  cheerful  givers  on  a  large  scale 
among  us,  and  many  on  a  small  one,  I  am  not  sure  that 
there  was  ever,  on  the  whole,  a  commercial  society  that 
contributed  a  smaller  part  of  its  gains  to  general  causes. 
We  have  done  much  in  this  way;  but  then  we  are  enor- 
mously rich;  and  the  most  that  has  been  done  has  been 
by  taxation,  which  falls  most  heavily  upon  small  property- 
owners.  The  more  communal  use  of  wealth  is  rather  a 
matter  of  general  probability,  and  of  faith  in  democratic 
sentiment,  than  of  demonstrable  fact. 

Much  might  be  said  of  the  various  ways  in  which  more 
community  sentiment  might  be  shown  and  class  resent- 
ment alleviated.  In  the  matter  of  dress,  for  example; 
shall  one  express  his  community  consciousness  in  it  or 
his  class  consciousness,  assuming  that  each  is  natural  and 
creditable  ?  It  would  seem  that  when  he  goes  abroad 
among  men  the  good  democrat  should  prefer  to  appear  a 
plain  citizen,  with  nothing  about  him  to  interrupt  inter- 
course with  any  class.     And   in  fact,  it  is  a  wholesome 

305 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

feature  of  American  life,  in  notable  contrast  with,  say, 
Germany,  that  high  as  well  as  low  are  averse  to  wearing 
military  or  other  distinctive  costume  in  public — except  at 
times  of  festival  or  display,  when  class  consciousness  is  in 
special  function.  We  feel  that  if  a  man  wants  to  distinguish 
himself  in  general  intercourse  he  should  do  so  in  courtesy 
or  wisdom,  not  in  medals  or  clothes. 

And  why  should  not  the  same  principle,  of  deference  to 
the  community  in  non-essentials,  apply  to  one's  house  and 
to  one's  way  of  living  in  general  ?  If  he  has  anything 
worthy  to  express  in  these  things,  let  him  express  it,  but 
not  pride  or  luxury. 

Let  us  not,  however,  formulize  upon  the  question  what 
one  may  rightly  spend  money  for,  or  imagine  that  formu- 
lism is  practicable.  The  principle  that  wealth  is  a  trust 
held  for  the  general  good  is  not  to  be  disputed;  but  lati- 
tude must  be  left  to  individual  conceptions  of  what  the 
general  good  is.  These  are  matters  not  for  formulas  or 
sumptuary  laws,  but  for  conscience.  To  set  up  any  other 
standard  would  be  to  suppress  individuality  and  do  more 
harm  than  good. 

Some  of  us  would  be  glad  to  see  almost  any  amount  of 
^wealth  spent  upon  beautiful  architecture,  though  we  might 
I  prefer  that  the  buildings  be  devoted  to  some  public  use. 
Let  us  have  beauty,  even  luxury,  but  let  it  be  public  and 
communicable.  It  certainly  seems  at  first  sight  that  vast 
expenditure  upon  private  yachts,  private  cars,  costly  balls, 
display  of  jewelry,  sumptuous  eating  and  the  like,  indicates 
a  low  state  of  culture;  but  perhaps  this  is  a  mistake;  no 
doubt  there  is  some  beneficence  in  these  things  not  generally 
understood. 

306 


HOSTILE  FEELING   BETWEEN  CLASSES 

We  do  not  want  uniformity  in  earning  and  spending, 
more  than  elsewhere,  only  unity  of  spirit.  Some  writers 
praise  the  emulation  that  is  determined  to  have  as  fine 
things  as  others  have,  but  while  this  has  its  uses  it  is  a 
social  impulse  of  no  high  kind  and  keeps  the  mass  of  men 
feeling  poor  and  inferior.  Our  dignity  and  happiness 
would  profit  more  if  each  of  us  were  to  work  out  life  in  a 
way  of  his  own  without  invidious  comparisons.  We  shall 
never  be  content  except  as  we  develop  and  enjoy  our  in- 
dividuality and  are  willing  to  forego  what  does  not  belong 
to  it.  I  know  that  I  was  not  born  to  get  or  to  use  riches, 
but  I  am  willing  to  believe  that  others  are. 

An  essential  condition  of  better  feeling  in  the  inevitable 
struggles  of  life  is  that  there  should  be  just  and  accepted 
*' rules  of  the  game"  to  give  moral  unity  to  the  whole. 
Much  must  be  suffered,  but  men  will  suffer  without  bitter- 
ness if  they  believe  that  they  do  so  under  just  and  necessary 
principles. 

A  solid  foundation  has  been  laid  for  this,  in  free  coun- 
tries, by  the  establishment  of  institutions  under  which  all 
class  conflicts  are  referred,  in  the  last  resort,  to  human 
nature  itself.  Through  free  speech  a  general  will  may  be 
organized  on  any  matter  urgent  enough  to  attract  general 
attention,  and  through  democratic  government  this  may 
be  tested,  recorded  and  carried  out.  Thus  is  provided  a 
tribunal  free  from  class  bias  before  which  controversies 
may  be  tried  and  settled  in  an  orderly  manner. 

It  would  be  hard  to  exaggerate  the  importance  to  social 
peace  of  this  recognition  of  the  ultimate  authority  of  pub- 
lic opinion,  acting  slowly  but  surely  through  constitutional 

307 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

methods.  It  means  a  moral  whole  which  prescribes  rules, 
directs  sane  agitation  into  healthy  and  moderate  chan- 
nels, and  takes  away  all  rational  ground  for  violenc3  or 
revolution.  If  men,  for  instance,  believe  that  a  particular 
kind  of  socialistic  state  is  the  cure  for  the  evils  of  society, 
let  them  speak,  print  and  form  their  party.  Perhaps  they 
are  right;  at  least,  they  get  much  wholesome  self-expression 
and  a  kind  of  happiness  out  of  their  aspiration  and  labors. 
And  if  they  are  partly  wrong,  yet  they  may  both  learn  and 
impart  much  to  the  general  advantage. 

But  we  have  made  only  a  beginning  in  this.  Our  ethics 
is  only  a  vague  outline,  not  a  matured  system,  and  in  the 
details  of  social  contact — as  between  employer  and  work- 
man, rich  and  poor,  Negro  and  white,  and  so  on — there 
is  such  a  lack  of  accepted  standards  that  men  have  little 
to  go  by  but  their  crude  impulses.  All  this  must  be  worked 
out,  in  as  much  patience  and  good  will  as  possible,  before 
we  can  expect  to  have  peace. 

Where  there  is  no  very  radical  conflict  of  essential  prin- 
ciples, ill  feeling  may  commonly  be  alleviated  by  face-to- 
face  discussion,  since  the  more  we  come  to  understand  one 
another  the  more  we  get  below  superficial  unlikeness  and 
find  essential  community.     Between  fairly  reasonable  and  j 
honest  men  it  is  always  wholesome  to  ''have  it  out,"  and  ( 
many  careful  studies  of  labor  troubles  agree  regarding  the  | 
large  part  played  by  misunderstandings  and  suspicion  that  i 
have  no  cause  except  lack  of  opportunity  for  explanation./ 
"The  rioting  would  not  have  taken  place,"  says  a  student 
of  certain  mining  disorders,  ''had  not  the  ignorance  and 
suspicion  of  the  Hungarians  been  supplemented  by  the 

308 


HOSTILE  FEELING  BETWEEN  CLASSES 

ignorance  and  suspicion  of  the  employers;  and  the  perse- 
verance of  this  mutual  attitude  may  yet  create  another 
riot."  *  There  is  a  strong  temptation  for  those  in  authority, 
especially  if  they  are  overworked,  or  conscious  of  being 
a  little  weak  or  unready  in  conference,  to  fence  themselves 
with  formality  and  the  type-written  letter.  But  a  man 
of  real  fitness  in  any  administrative  capacity  must  have 
stomach  for  open  and  face-to-face  dealing  with  men. 

And  a  democratic  system  sooner  or  later  brings  to  pass 
face-to-face  discussion  of  all  vital  questions,  because  the 
people  will  be  satisfied  with  no  other.  An  appearance  of 
shirking  it  will  arouse  even  more  distrust  and  hostility  than 
the  open  avowal  of  selfish  motives;  and  accordingly  it  is 
more  and  more  the  practice  of  aggressive  interests  to  seek 
to  justify  themselves  by  at  least  the  appearance  of  frank 
appeal  to  popular  judgment. 

*  Spahr,  America's  Working  People,  128. 


S09 


PART  V 
INSTITUTIONS 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

INSTITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 

The  Nature  of  Institutions— Hereditary  and  Social  Factors' 
— The  Child  and  the  World — Society  and  Personality 
— Personality  versus  the  Institution — The  Institution 
AS  a  Basis  of  Personality — The  Moral  Aspect — Choice 
versus  Mechanism — Personality  the  Life  of  Institutions 
— Institutions  Becoming  P'reer  in  Structure. 

An  institution  is  simply  a  definite  and  established  phase 
of  the  public  mind,  not  different  in  its  ultimate  nature  from 
public  opinion,  though  often  seeming,  on  account  of  its 
permanence  and  the  visible  customs  and  symbols  in  which 
it  is  clothed,  to  have  a  somewhat  distinct  and  independent 
existence.  Thus  the  political  state  and  the  church,  with 
their  venerable  associations,  their  vast  and  ancient  power, 
their  literature,  buildings  and  offices,  hardly  appear  even 
to  a  democratic  people  as  the  mere  products  of  human  in- 
vention which,  of  course,  they  are. 

The  great  institutions  are  the  outcome  of  that  organ- 
ization which  human  thought  naturally  takes  on  when  it  is 
directed  for  age  after  age  upon  a  particular  subject,  and 
so  gradually  crystallizes  in  definite  forms — enduring  senti- 
ments, beliefs,  customs  and  symbols.  And  this  is  the 
case  when  there  is  some  deep  and  abiding  interest  to  hold 
the  attention  of  men.  Language,  government,  the  church, 
laws  and  customs  of  property  and  of  the  family,  systems 

313 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

of  industry  and  education,  are  institutions  because  they 
are  the  working  out  of  permanent  needs  of  human  nature. 

These  various  institutions  are  not  separable  entities, 
but  rather  phases  of  a  common  and  at  least  partly  homo- 
geneous body  of  thought,  just  as  are  the  various  tendencies 
and  convictions  of  an  individual:  they  are  the  "apper- 
ceptive systems''  or  organized  attitudes  of  the  pubHc  mind, 
and  it  is  only  by  abstraction  that  we  can  regard  them  as 
things  by  themselves.  We  are  to  remember  that  the 
social  system  is  above  all  a  whole,  no  matter  how  the  con- 
venience of  study  may  lead  us  to  divide  it. 

In  the  individual  the  institution  exists  as  a  habit  of  mind 
and  of  action,  largely  unconscious  because  largely  com- 
mon to  all  the  group:  it  is  only  the  differential  aspect  of 
ourselves  of  which  we  are  commonly  aware.  But  it  is  in 
men  and  nowhere  else  that  the  institution  is  to  be  found. 
The  real  existence  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States, 
for  example,  is  in  the  traditional  ideas  of  the  people  and 
the  activities  of  judges,  legislators  and  administrators;  the 
written  instrument  being  only  a  means  of  communication, 
an  Ark  of  the  Covenant,  ensuring  the  integrity  of  the  tra- 
dition. 

The  individual  is  always  cause  as  well  as  effect  of  the 
institution:  he  receives  the  impress  of  the  state  whose  tra- 
ditions have  enveloped  him  from  childhood,  but  at  the 
same  time  impresses  his  own  character,  formed  by  other 
forces  as  well  as  this,  upon  the  state,  which  thus  in  him 
and  others  like  him  undergoes  change. 

If  we  think  carefully  about  this  matter,  however,  we 
shall  see  that  there  are  several  somewhat  different  questions 
which  might  be  included  in  a  study  of  the  relation  between 

314 


INSTITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 

the  individual  and  institutions;  and  these  we  ought  to  dis- 
tinguish. 

One  of  them  is  that  of  the  babe  to  the  world,  or  of  the 
hereditary  factor  of  life,  existing  in  us  at  birth,  to  the 
factor  of  communication  and  influence. 

Another  and  quite  different  one  is  that  of  society  and 
personality,  or  of  the  relation  between  the  mature  indi- 
vidual and  the  whole  of  which  he  is  a  member. 

A  third  is  the  question — again  a  distinct  one — of  the 
relation,  not  between  the  person  and  society  at  large,  but 
between  him  and  particular  institutions.  This  last  is 
the  one  with  which  we  are  more  properly  concerned,  but 
it  may  not  be  amiss  to  offer  some  observations  on  the 
others. 

The  child  at  birth,  when,  we  may  suppose  for  con- 
venience, society  has  had  no  direct  influence  upon  him^ 
represents  the  race  stock  or  hereditary  factor  in  life  in 
antithesis  to  the  factor  of  tradition,  communication  and 
social  organization.  He  also  represents  an  undeveloped 
or  merely  biological  individuality  in  contrast  to  the  de- 
veloped social  whole  into  which  he  comes. 

We  think  of  the  social  world  as  the  mature,  organized, 
institutional  factor  in  the  problem;  and  yet  we  may  well 
.^y  that  the  child  also  embodies  an  institution  (using  the 
word  largely)  and  one  more  ancient  and  stable  than  church 
or  state,  namely  the  biological  type,  little  changed,  prob- 
ably, since  the  dawn  of  history.  It  cannot  be  shown  in 
any  way  that  I  know  of  that  the  children  born  to-day  of 
English  or  American  parents — leaving  aside  any  question 
of  race  mixture — are  greatly  different  in  natural  outfit  from 

'315 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

the  Saxon  boys  and  girls,  their  ancestors,  who  played  upon 
the  banks  of  the  Elbe  fifteen  hundred  years  ago.  The 
rooted  instincts  and  temperament  of  races  appear  to  be 
very  much  what  they  were,  and  the  changes  of  history — 
the  development  of  political  institutions,  the  economic 
revolutions,  the  settlement  of  new  countries,  the  Reforma- 
tion, the  rise  of  science  and  the  like — are  changes  mainly 
in  the  social  factor  of  life,  which  thus  appears  compara- 
tively a  shifting  thing. 

In  the  development  of  the  child,  then,  we  have  to  do 
with  the  interaction  of  two  types,  both  of  which  are  ancient 
and  stable,  though  one  more  so  than  the  other.  And  the 
stir  and  generation  of  human  life  is  precisely  in  the  mingling 
of  these  types  and  in  the  many  variations  of  each  one.  The 
hereditary  outfit  of  a  child  consists  of  vague  tendencies  or 
aptitudes  which  get  definiteness  and  meaning  only  through 
the  communicative  influences  which  enable  them  to  develop. 
Thus  babbling  is  instinctive,  while  speech  comes  by  this 
instinct  being  defined  and  instructed  in  society;  curiosity 
comes  by  nature,  knowledge  by  life;  fear,  in  a  vague, 
instinctive  form,  is  supposed  to  be  felt  even  by  the  foetus, 
but  the  fears  of  later  life  are  chiefly  social  fears;  there  is 
an  instinctive  sensibifity  which  develops  into  sympathy 
and  love;   and  so  on. 

Nothing  is  more  futile  than  general  discussions  of  the 
relative  importance  of  heredity  and  environment.  It  is 
much  like  the  case  of  matter  versus  mind;  both  are  in- 
dispensable to  every  phase  of  life,  and  neither  can  exist 
apart  from  the  other:  they  are  coordinate  in  importa-nce 
and  incommensurable  in  nature.  One  might  as  well  ask 
whether  the  soil  or  the  seed  predominates  in  the  formation 

316 


INSl'ITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 

of  a  tree,  as  whether  nature  does  more  for  us  than  nurture. 
The  fact  that  most  writers  have  a  predilection  for  one  of 
these  factors  at  the  expense  of  the  other  (Mr.  Galton  and 
the  biological  school,  for  example,  seeing  heredity  every- 
where, and  not  much  else,  while  psychologists  and  sociol- 
ogists put  the  stress  on  influence)  means  only  that  some 
are  trained  to  attend  to  one  class  of  facts  and  some  to 
another.  One  may  be  more  relevant  for  a  given  practical 
purpose  than  the  other,  but  to  make  a  general  opposition 
is  unintelligent. 

To  the  eye  of  sentiment  a  new-born  child  offers  a  mov- 
ing contrast  to  the  ancient  and  grimy  world  into  which  it 
so  innocently  enters;  the  one  formed,  apparently,  for  all 
that  is  pure  and  good,  ''trailing  clouds  of  glory"  as  some 
think,  from  a  more  spiritual  world  than  ours,  pathetically 
unconscious  of  anything  but  joy;  the  other  gray  and 
saturnine,  sure  to  prove  in  many  ways  a  prison-house, 
perhaps  a  foul  one. 

**Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight."* 

No  doubt,  however,  the  pathos  of  this  contrast  arises  in 
part  from  somewhat  fallacious  preconceptions.  The  imag- 
ination idealizes  the  child,  reading  its  own  visions  into 
his  innocence  as  it  does  into  the  innocence  of  the  sea  and 
the  mountains,  and  contrasting  his  future  career  not  with 
what  he  is,  but  with  an  ideal  of  what  he  might  become.  In 
truth  the  child  already  feels,  in  his  own  way,  the  painful 
side  of  life;  he  has  the  seeds  of  darkness  in  him  as  well 
as  those  of  light,  and  cannot  in  strictness  be  said  to  be  any 
*  Wordsworth,  Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immortality,  etc. 

317 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

better  than  the  world.  The  good  of  life  transcends  his 
imagination  as  much  as  does  the  evil,  and  he  could  not 
become  anything  at  all  except  in  a  social  world.  The  pity 
of  the  matter,  which  may  well  move  every  one  who  thinks 
of  it  to  work  for  better  homes,  schools  and  playgrounds, 
is  simply  that  we  are  about  to  make  so  poor  a  use  of  a 
plastic  material,  that  he  might  be  so  much  better  and 
happier  if  we  would  prepare  a  better  place  for  him. 

It  is  true,  in  a  sense,  as  Bacon  says,  that  youth  has  more 
of  divinity,  but  perhaps  we  might  also  say  that  it  has  more 
of  deviltry;  the  younger  life  is,  the  more  unbound  it  is, 
not  yet  in  harness,  with  more  divine  insight  and  more  reck- 
less passion,  and  adolescence  is  the  period  of  criminality 
as  well  as  of  poetry. 

There  is  a  natural  affinity  between  childhood  and  de- 
mocracy; the  latter  implying,  indeed,  that  we  are  to  be- 
come more  as  little  children,  more  simple,  frank  and 
human.  And  it  is  a  very  proper  part  of  the  democratic 
movement  that  more  and  more  prestige  is  attaching  to 
childhood,  that  it  is  more  studied,  cherished  and  respected. 
Probably  nothing  else  gives  such  cogency  to  the  idea  of 
reform  as  to  think  of  what  it  means  to  children.  We 
wish  to  know  that  all  the  children  of  the  land  are  happily 
unfolding  their  minds  and  hearts  at  home,  school  and  play; 
and  that  there  is  a  gradual  induction  into  useful  work, 
.which  also  proceeds  regularly  and  happily.  This  calls  for 
better  homes  and  neighborhoods,  and  the  overcoming 
of  conditions  that  degrade  them ;  it  implies  better  schools, 
the  suppression  of  child-labor,  regular  industrial  educa- 
tion, wholesome  and  fairly  paid  work  and  reasonable  se- 
curity of  position.     While  the  child  is  not  exactly  better 

318 


INSTITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 

than  the  world,  his  possibiHties  make  us  feel  that  the 
world  ought  to  be  better  for  his  sake. 

As  fast  as  a  child  becomes  a  person,  he  also  becomes  a 
member  of  the  existing  social  order.  This  is  simply  a  case 
of  a  whole  and  one  of  its  differentiated  parts;  having  so 
often  insisted  that  society  and  the  individual  are  aspects 
of  the  same  thing,  I  need  not  enlarge  upon  it  here.  Even 
the  degenerate,  so  far  as  they  have  faculty  enough  to  be 
human,  live  in  the  social  order  and  are  as  much  one  with 
it  as  the  rest  of  mankind.  We  simply  cannot  separate 
the  individual  from  society  at  large;  to  get  a  contrast  we 
must  pass  on  to  consider  him  in  relation  to  particular  in- 
stitutions, or  to  institutions  in  general  as  distinguished 
from  more  plastic  phases  of  life. 

An  institution  is  a  mature,  specialized  and  compara- 
tively rigid  part  of  the  social  structure.  It  is  made  up  of 
persons,  but  not  of  whole  persons;  each  one  enters  into 
it  with  a  trained  and  specialized  part  of  himself.  Con- 
sider, for  instance,  the  legal  part  of  a  lawyer,  the  ecclesi- 
astical part  of  a  church  member  or  the  business  part  of 
a  merchant.  In  antithesis  to  the  institution,  therefore, 
the  person  represents  the  wholeness  and  humanness  of 
life;  he  is,  as  Professor  Alfred  Lloyd  says,*  "a  corrector 
of  partiality,  and  a  translator  and  distributor  of  special 
development."  A  man  is  no  man  at  all  if  he  is  merely 
a  piece  of  an  institution;  he  must  stand  also  for  human 
nature,  for  the  instinctive,  the  plastic  and  the  ideal. 

*  In  a  paper  on  The  Personal  and  the  Factional  in  the  Life  of 
Society.  The  Journal  of  Philosophy,  Psychology  and  Scientific 
Methods,  1905,  p.  337. 

319 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

I'he  saying  that  corporations  have  no  soul  expresses 
well  enough  this  defect  of  all  definite  social  structures, 
which  gives  rise  to  an  irrepressible  conflict  between  them 
and  the  freer  and  larger  impulses  of  human  nature.  Just 
in  proportion  as  they  achieve  an  effective  special  mechanism 
for  a  narrow  purpose,  they  lose  humanness,  breadth  and 
adaptability.  As  we  have  to  be  specially  on  our  guard 
against  commercial  corporations,  because  of  their  union 
of  power  and  impersonality,  so  we  should  be  against  all 
institutions. 

The  institution  represents  might,  and  also,  perhaps, 
right,  but  right  organized,  mature,  perhaps  gone  to  seed, 
never  fresh  and  unrecognized.  New  right,  or  moral 
progress,  always  begins  in  a  revolt  against  institutions. 

I  have  in  mind  a  painting  which  may  be  said  to  set  forth 
to  the  eye  this  relation  between  the  living  soul  and  the 
institution.  It  represents  St.  James  before  the  Roman 
Emperor.*  The  former  is  poorly  clad,  beautiful,  with 
rapt,  uplifted  face;  the  latter  majestic,  dominant,  assured, 
seated  high  on  his  ivorj  chair  and  surrounded  by 
soldiers. 

Of  course  the  institutional  element  is  equally  essential 
with  the  personal.  The  mechanical  working  of  tradition 
and  convention  pours  into  the  mind  the  tried  wisdom  of 
the  race,  a  system  of  thought  every  part  of  which  has  sur- 
vived because  it  was,  in  some  sense,  the  fittest,  because  it 
approved  itself  to  the  human  spirit.  In  this  way  the  indi- 
vidual gets  language,  sentiments,  moral  standards  and  all 
kinds  of  knowledge:  gets  them  with  an  exertion  of  the 
*  By  Mantegna. 
320 


INSTITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 

will  trifling  compared  with  what  these  things  originally 
cost.  They  have  become  a  social  atmosphere  which  per- 
vades the  mind  mostly  without  its  active  participation. 
Once  the  focus  of  attention  and  effort,  they  have  now  re- 
ceded into  the  dimness  of  the  matter-of-course,  leaving 
energy  free  for  new  conquests.  On  this  involuntary 
foundation  we  build,  and  it  needs  no  argument  to  show 
that  we  could  accomplish  nothing  without  it. 

Thus  all  innovation  is  based  on  conformity,  all  heter- 
odoxy on  orthodoxy,  all  individuality  on  solidarity.  With- 
out the  orthodox  tradition  in  biology,  for  instance,  under 
the  guidance  of  which  a  store  of  ordered  knowledge  had 
been  collected,  the  heterodoxy  of  Dai*win,  based  on  a 
reinterpretation  of  this  knowledge,  would  have  been 
impossible.  And  so  in  art,  the  institution  supplies  a 
basis  to  the  very  individual  who  rebels  against  it.  Mr. 
Brownell,  in  his  work  on  French  Art,  points  out,  in  dis- 
cussing the  relation  of  Rodin  the  innovating  sculptor  to 
the  French  Institute,  that  he  owes  his  development  and 
the  interest  his  non-conformity  excites  largely  to  *'the 
very  system  that  has  been  powerful  enough  to  popularize 
indefinitely  the  subject  both  of  subscription  and  revolt."* 
In  America  it  is  not  hostile  criticism  but  no  criticism  at 
all — sheer  ignorance  and  indifference — that  discourages 
the  artist  and  man  of  letters  and  makes  it  difficult  to 
form  a  high  ideal.  Where  there  is  an  organized  tradi- 
tion there  may  be  intolerance  but  there  will  also  be  intel- 
ligence. 

Thus  choice,  which  represents  the  relatively  free  action 
of  human  nature  in  building  up  life,  is  like  the  coral  iasect, 
*  Page  30.     See  also  the  last  chapter, 
321 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

always  working  on  a  mountain  made  up  of  the  crystallized 
remains  of  dead  predecessors. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  the  person  is,  in  general, 
better  than  the  institution.  Morally,  as  in  other  respects, 
there  are  advantages  on  each  side.  The  person  has  love 
and  aspiration  and  all  sorts  of  warm,  fresh,  plastic  im- 
pulses, to  which  the  institution  is  seldom  hospitable, 
but  the  latter  has  a  sober  and  tried  goodness  of  the  ages, 
the  deposit,  little  by  little,  of  what  has  been  found  practi- 
cable in  the  wayward  and  transient  outreachings  of  human 
idealism.  The  law,  the  state,  the  traditional  code  oi 
right  and  wrong,  these  are  related  to  personality  as  a  gray- 
haired  father  to  a  child.  However  world-worn  and  hard- 
ened by  conflict,  they  are  yet  strong  and  wise  and  kind, 
and  we  do  well  in  most  matters  to  obey  them. 

A  similar  line  of  reasoning  applies  to  the  popular  fal- 
lacy that  a  nation  is  of  necessity  less  moral  in  its  dealings 
with  other  nations  than  an  individual  with  other  indi- 
viduals. International  morality  is  on  a  low  plane  because 
it  is  recent  and  undeveloped,  not  from  any  inevitable  de- 
fect in  its  nature.  It  is  slow  to  grow,  like  anything  else  of 
an  institutional  character,  but  there  is  no  reason  why  it 
should  not  eventually  express  the  utmost  justice  and  gen- 
erosity of  which  we  are  capable.  All  depends  upon  the 
energy  and  persistence  with  which  people  try  to  effectuate 
their  ideals  in  this  sphere.  The  slowness  of  an  institu- 
tion is  compensated  by  its  capacity  for  age-long  cumulative 
growth,  and  in  this  way  it  may  outstrip,  even  morally,  the 
ordinary  achievement  of  individuals — as  the  Christian 
Church,  for  example,  stands  for  ideals  beyond  the  attain- 

322 


INSTITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 

merit  of  most  of  its  members.  If  we  set  our  hearts  on 
having  a  righteous  state  we  can  have  one  more  righteous 
than  anv  individual. 

The  treatment  of  Cuba  by  the  United  States  and  the 
suppression  of  the  slave-trade  by  the  British  are  examples 
of  nations  acting  upon  generous  principles  which  we  may 
reasonably  expect  to  extend  as  time  goes  on.  As  the  need 
of  international  justice  and  peace  becomes  keenly  felt,  its 
growth  becomes  as  natural  as  the  analogous  process  in 
an  individual. 

Whenever  the  question  is  raised  between  choice  and 
mechanism,*  the  advocates  of  the  latter  may  justly  claim 
that  it  saves  energy,  and  may  demand  whether,  in  a  given 
case,  the  results  of  choice  justify  its  cost. 

Thus  choice,  working  on  a  large  scale,  is  competition, 
and  the  only  alternative  is  some  mechanical  principle, 
either  the  inherited  status  of  history  or  some  new  rule  of 
stability  to  be  worked  out,  perhaps,  by  socialism.  Yet  the 
present  competitive  order  is  not  unjustly  censured  as 
wasteful,  harassing,  unjust  and  hostile  to  the  artistic 
spirit.  Choice  is  working  somewhat  riotously,  without 
an  adequate  basis  of  established  principles  and  standards, 
and  so  far  as  socialism  is  seeking  these  it  is  doing  well. 

Carlyle  and  others  have  urged  with  much  reason  that  the 
mediaeval  workman,  hemmed  in  as  he  was  by  mechanical 
and  to  us  unreasonable  restrictions,  was  in  some  respects 
better  off  than  his  modern  successor.  There  was  less 
freedom  of  opportunity,  but  also  less  strain,  ugliness  and 

*  I  mean  by  mechanism  anything  in  the  way  of  habit,  authority 
or  formula  that  tends  to  dispense  with  choice. 

323 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

despair;  and  the  standards  of  the  day  were  perhaps  better 
maintained  than  ours  are  now. 

We  need  a  better  discipline,  a  more  adequate  organiza- 
tion; the  competent  student  can  hardly  fail  to  see  this; 
but  these  thinga  do  not  exist  ready-made,  and  our  present 
task  seems  to  be  to  work  them  out,  at  the  expense,  doubt- 
less, of  other  objects  toward  which,  in  quieter  times, 
choice  might  be  directed. 

Thus  it  is  from  the  interaction  of  personality  and  insti- 
tutions that  progress  comes.  The  person  represents  more 
directly  that  human  nature  which  it  is  the  end  of  all  insti- 
tutions to  serve,  but  the  institution  represents  the  net  re- 
sult of  a  development  far  transcending  any  single  personal 
consciousness.  The  person  will  criticise,  and  be  mostly 
in  the  wrong,  but  not  altogether.  He  will  attack,  and 
mostly  fail,  but  from  many  attacks  change  will  ensue. 

It  is  also  true  that  although  institutions  stand,  in  a  gen- 
eral way,  for  the  more  mechanical  phase  of  life,  they  yet 
require,  within  themselves,  an  element  of  personal  freedom. 
Individuality,  provided  it  be  in  harness,  is  the  life  of  insti- 
tutions, all  vigor  and  adaptability  depending  upon  it. 

An  army  is  the  type  of  a  mechanical  institution;  and 
yet,  even  in  an  army,  individual  choice,  confined  of  course 
within  special  channels,  is  vital  to  the  machine.  In  the 
German  army,  according  to  a  competent  observer,  there 
is  a  systematic  culture  of  self-reliance,  a  *' development  of 
the  individual  powers  by  according  liberty  to  the  utmost 
extent  possible  with  the  maintenance  of  the  necessary 
system  and  discipHne."  *'To  the  commandant  of  the 
company  is  left  the  entire  responsibility  for  the  instruction 

324 


INSTITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 

of  his  men,  in  what  mode  and  at  what  hour  he  may  see  fit," 
and  "a  like  freedom  is  accorded  to  every  officer  charged 
with  every  branch  whatsoever  of  instruction/^  while  "the 
intelligence  and  self-reliance  of  the  soldier  is  constantly 
appealed  to."  *  In  American  armies  the  self-reliant  spirit 
of  the  soldier  and  the  common-sense  and  adaptability 
developed  by  our  rough-and-ready  civilization  have  always 
been  of  the  utmost  value.  Nor  are  they  unfavorable  to 
discipline,  that  "true  discipline  of  the  soldiers  of  freedom, 
a  discipline  which  must  arise  from  individual  conviction 
of  duty  and  is  very  different  from  the  compulsory  discipline 
of  the  soldier  of  despotism."!  Thus,  in  the  battle  of 
Gettysburg,  when  Pickett's  charge  broke  the  Federal 
line,  and  when  for  the  moment,  owing  to  the  death  of 
many  officers,  the  succession  of  command  was  lost,  it  is 
said  that  the  men  without  orders  took  up  a  position  which 
enabled  them  to  crush  the  invading  column. 

As  the  general  character  of  organization  becomes  freer 
and  more  human,  both  the  mechanical  and  the  choosing 
elements  of  the  institution  rise  to  a  higher  plane.  The 
former  ceases  to  be  an  arbitrary  and  intolerant  law,  upheld 
by  fear,  by  supernatural  sanctions  and  the  suppression  of 
free  speech;  and  tends  to  become  simply  a  settled  habit 
of  thought,  settled  not  because  discussion  is  stifled  but 
because  it  is  superfluous,  because  the  habit  of  thought  has 
so  proved  its  fitness  to  existing  conditions  that  there  is  no 
prospect  of  shaking  it. 

Thus  in  a  free  modern  state,  the  political  system,  funda- 

*  Baring-Gould,  Germany,  i,  350  ff. 
t  Garibaldi's  Autobiography,  i,  105. 

325 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

mental  property  rights  and  the  like  are  settled,  so  far  as 
they  are  settled,  not  because  they  are  sacred  or  authori- 
tative, but  because  the  public  mind  is  convinced  of  their 
soundness.  Though  we  may  not  reason  about  them  they 
are,  so  to  speak,  potentially  rational,  inasmuch  as  they 
are  believed  to  rest  upon  reason  and  may  at  any  time  be 
tested  by  it. 

The  advantages  and  disadvantages  of  this  sort  of  insti- 
tutions are  well  understood.  They  do  not  afford  quite 
the  sharp  and  definite  discipline  of  a  more  arbitrary  sys- 
tem, but  they  are  more  flexible,  more  closely  expressive 
of  the  public  mind,  and  so,  if  they  can  be  made  to  work  at 
all,  more  stable. 

The  free  element  in  institutions  also  tends  to  become 
better  informed,  better  trained,  better  organized,  more 
truly  rational.  We  have  so  many  occasions  to  note  this 
that  it  is  unnecessary  to  dwell  upon  it  here. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

INSTITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIYIDVAL- Continued. 

Innovation  as  a  Personal  Tendency — Innovation  and  Con- 
servatism AS  Public  Habit — Solidarity — French  and 
Anglo-Saxon  Solidarity — Tradition  and  Convention — 
Not  so  Opposite  as  They  Appear — Real  Difference,  In 
this  Regard,  Between  Modern  and  Medieval  Society 
■ — Traditionalism  and  Conventionalism  in  Modern  Life. 

The  time-worn  question  of  conservatism  as  against 
change  has  evidently  much  in  common  with  that  of  person- 
ahty  as  against  institutions.  Innovation,  that  is,  is  bound 
up  with  the  assertion  of  fresh  personaHty  against  mechan- 
ism; and  the  arguments  for  and  against  it  are  the  same 
as  I  have  already  suggested.  Wherever  there  is  vigor  and 
constructive  power  in  the  individual  there  is  likely  to  be 
discontent  with  the  establishment.  The  young  notoriously 
tend  to  innovation,  and  so  do  those  of  a  bold  and  restless 
temperament  at  any  age;  the  old,  on  the  contrary,  the 
quiet,  the  timid,  are  conservative.  And  so  with  whole 
peoples;  in  so  far  as  they  are  enfeebled  by  climate  or 
other  causes  they  become  inert  and  incapable  of  construc- 
tive change. 

What  may  not  be  quite  so  obvious,  at  least  to  those  who 
have  not  read  M.  Tarde's  work  on  the  Laws  of  Imitation,* 

*  Gabriel  Tarde,  Les  lois  de  rimitation;  English  translation 
The  Laws  of  Imitation. 

327 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

IS  that  innovation  or  the  opposite  may  be  a  public  habit, 
independently  of  differences  in  age  or  vigor.  The  atti- 
tude toward  change  is  subject  to  the  same  sort  of  altera- 
tion as  public  opinion,  or  any  other  phase  of  the  public 
mind.  That  a  nation  has  moved  for  centuries  in  the 
deepest  ruts  of  conservatism,  like  China  or  India,  is  no 
proof  of  a  lack  of  natural  vigor,  but  may  mean  only  that 
the  social  type  has  matured  and  hardened  in  isolation, 
not  encountering  any  influence  pungent  enough  to  pierce 
its  shell  and  start  a  cycle  of  change.  Thus  it  is  now  ap- 
parent that  lack  of  incitement,  not  lack  of  capacity,  was 
the  cause  of  the  backwardness  of  Japan,  and  there  is 
little  doubt  that  the  same  is  true  of  China. 

Energy  and  suggestion  are  equally  indispensable  to  all 
human  achievement.  In  the  absence  of  the  latter  the 
mind  easily  spends  itself  in  minor  activities,  and  there  is  no 
reason  why  this  should  not  be  true  of  a  whole  people  and 
continue  for  centuries.  Then,  again,  a  spark  may  set  it 
on  fire  and  produce  in  a  few  years  pregnant  changes  in 
the  structure  of  society.  The  physical  law  of  the  persist- 
ence of  energy  in  uniform  quantity  is  a  most  illusive  one 
to  apply  to  human  life.  There  is  always  a  great  deal  more 
mental  energy  than  is  utilized,  and  the  amount  that  is 
really  productive  depends  chiefly  on  the  urgency  of  sug- 
gestion. Indeed,  the  higher  activities  of  the  human  mind 
are,  in  general,  more  like  a  series  of  somewhat  fortuitous 
explosions  than  like  the  work  of  a  uniform  force. 

There  may  also  be  a  habit  of  change  that  is  mere  rest- 
lessness and  has  no  constructive  significance.  In  the 
early  history  of  America  a  conspicuous  character  on  the 
frontier  was  the  man  who  had  the  habit  of  moving  on. 

328 


INSTITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 

He  would  settle  for  two  or  three  years  in  one  locality  and 
then,  getting  restless,  sell  out  and  go  on  to  another.  So 
at  present,  those  whom  ambition  and  circumstance^  in  early 
manhood,  have  driven  rapidly  from  one  thing  to  another, 
often  continue  into  old  age  the  habit  so  acquired,  making 
their  families  and  friends  most  uncomfortable.  I  have 
noticed  that  there  are  over-strenuous  people  who  have 
come  to  have  an  ideal  of  themselves  as  making  an  effort, 
and  are  most  uneasy  when  this  is  not  the  case.  To  ''  being 
latent  feel  themselves  no  less"  is  quite  impossible  to 
them. 

In  our  commercial  and  industrial  life  the  somewhat 
feverish  progress  has  generated  a  habit,  a  whole  system 
of  habits,  based  on  the  expectation  of  change.  Enter- 
prise and  adaptability  are  cultivated  at  the  expense  of 
whatever  conflicts  with  them;  each  one,  feeling  that  the 
procession  is  moving  on  and  that  he  must  keep  up  with  it, 
hurries  along  at  the  expense,  perhaps,  of  health,  culture 
and  sanity. 

This  unrest  is  due  rather  to  transition  than  to  de- 
mocracy; the  ancient  view  that  the  latter  is  in  its  nature 
unstable  being,  as  I  have  said,  quite  discredited.  Even 
De  Tocqueville,  about  1835,  saw  that  the  political  unrest 
of  America  was  in  minor  affairs,  and  that  a  democratic 
polity  might  conceivably  "render  society  more  stationary 
than  it  has  ever  been  in  our  western  part  of  the  world."* 
Tarde  has  expounded  the  matter  at  length  and  to  much 
the  same  effect.  A  policy  is  stable  when  it  is  suited  to 
prevailing  conditions;  and  every  year  makes  it  more  ap- 
parent that  for  peoples  of  European  stock,  at  leasts  a 
*  Democracy  in  America,  vol.  ii,  book  iii,  chap.  21. 
329 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

polity  essentially  democratic  is  the  only  one  that  can  per- 
manently meet  this  test. 

A  social  group  in  which  there  is  a  fundamental  harmony 
of  forces  resulting  in  effective  cooperation  may  be  said, 
I  suppose,  to  be  solidaire,  to  adopt  a  French  word  much 
used  in  this  connection.  Thus  France  with  its  compara- 
tively homogeneous  people  has  no  doubt  more  solidarity 
— notwithstanding  its  dissensions — than  Austria;  Eng- 
land more  than  Russia,  and  Japan  more  than  China. 

But  if  one  thinks  closely  about  the  question  he  will  find 
it  no  easy  matter  to  say  in  just  what  solidarity  consists. 
Not  in  mere  likeness,  certainly,  since  the  difference  of 
individuals  and  parts  is  not  only  consistent  with  but  es- 
sential to  a  harmonious  whole — as  the  harmony  of  music 
is  produced  by  differing  but  correlated  sounds.  We  want 
what  Burke  described  as  ''that  action  and  counteraction, 
which  in  the  natural  and  in  the  political  world,  from  the 
reciprocal  struggle  of  discordant  powers  draws  out  the 
harmony  of  the  universe."* 

So  far  as  likeness  is  necessary  it  is  apparently  a  likeness 
of  essential  ideas  and,  still  more,  of  sentiments,  appropriate 
to  the  activity  in  question.  Thus  a  Japanese  writer  ex- 
plains the  patriotic  unity  of  his  countrymen  by  their  com- 
mon devotion  to  the  Mikado  and  the  imperial  family. 

"When  a  Japanese  says  'I  love  my  country,'  a  great  or  even  the 
greater  part  of  his  idea  of  his  'country'  is  taken  up  by  the  emperor 
and  the  imperial  family  ...  his  forefathers  and  descendants  are 
also  taken  into  account."  "In  joy  and  in  sorrow  he  believes  that 
they  (his  own  ancestors)  are  with  him.  He  serves  them  as  if  they 
were  living.     And  these  ancestors  whom  he  loves  and  reveres  were 

*  The  Works  of  Edmund  Burke  (Boston,  1884),  vol.  iii,  p.  277. 

330 


INSTITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 

all  loyal  to  their  emperors  in  their  days;  so  he  feels  he  must  be  loyal 
to  his  emperor. 

"  Nothing  is  so  real  to  him  as  what  he  feels;  and  he  feels  that  with 
him  are  united  the  past,  the  present  and  the  future  generations  of 
his  countrymen."  "Thus  fully  conscious  of  the  intense  sympathy 
of  his  compatriots,  both  dead  and  living,  and  swelled  with  lofty 
anticipations  of  his  glorious  destiny,  no  danger  can  appall  and  no 
toil  can  tire  the  real  Japanese  soldier."* 


In  America  unity  of  spirit  is  intense,  and  yet  singularly 
headless  and  formless.  There  is  no  capital  city,  no  guid- 
ing upper  class,  no  monarch,  no  creed,  scarcely  even  a 
dominating  tradition.  It  seems  to  be  a  matter  of  com- 
mon allegiance  to  vague  sentiments  of  freedom,  kindliness 
and  hope.  And  this  very  circumstance,  that  the  American 
spirit  is  so  little  specialized  and  so  much  at  one  with  the 
general  spirit  of  human  nature,  does  more  than  anything 
else  to  make  it  influential,  and  potent  in  the  assimilation 
of  strange  elements. 

The  only  adequate  proof  of  a  lack  of  solidarity  is  in- 
efficiency in  total  action.  There  may  be  intense  strife  of 
parties  and  classes  which  has  nothing  really  disintegrating 
in  it;  but  when  we  see,  as  was  apparently  the  case  in 
Russia  not  long  ago,  that  the  hour  of  conflict  with  an  ex- 
ternal enemy  does  not  unite  internal  forces  but  increases 
their  divergence,  it  is  clear  that  something  is  wrong. 

It  is  sometimes  said  that  France  has  more  solidarity 
than  Great  Britain  or  the  United  States,  the  ground  being 
that  we  have  a  less  fluent  unity  of  the  social  mind,  a  more 
vigorous  self-assertion  of  the  individual.     But  this  is  as 

*  Amenomori  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Oct.,  1904. 
331 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

dubious  as  to  say  that  the  contention  of  athletes  amoag 
themselves  will  prevent  their  uniting  to  form  a  strong 
team.  Yet  there  does  seem  to  be  an  interesting  difference 
in  kind  between  the  sort  of  unity,  of  common  discipline 
and  sentiment,  which  exists  among  the  French  and  that  of 
English  or  Americans — these  latter,  however  different, 
being  far  more  like  each  other  in  this  respect  than  either 
to  the  French.  The  contrast  seems  to  me  so  illuminat- 
ing, as  a  study  of  social  types,  that  I  will  spend  a  few 
pages  in  attempting  to  expound  it. 

French  thought — as  to  this  I  follow  largely  Mr.  Brown- 
ell's  penetrating  study*— seems  to  be  not  only  more  central- 
ized in  place,  that  is,  more  dominated  by  the  capital,  but 
also,  leaving  aside  certain  notorious  divisions,  more  uni- 
form, more  authoritative,  more  intolerant,  more  obviously 
soUdaire.  There  is  less  initiative,  less  aggressive  non-con- 
formity. French  sentiment  emphasizes  equality  much 
more  than  individual  freedom  and  is  somewhat  intolerant 
of  any  marked  departure  from  the  dominant  types  of 
thought.  There  is  more  jealousy  of  personal  power, 
especially  in  politics,  and  less  of  that  eager  yet  self-poised 
sympathy  with  triumphant  personality  which  we  find  in 
England  or  America.  There  is,  in  fact,  more  need  to  be 
jealous  of  a  personal  ascendency,  because,  when  it  once 
gains  sway,  there  is  less  to  check  it.  And  with  all  this 
goes  the  French  system  of  public  education,  whose  well- 
known  uniformity,  strictness  of  discipline  and  classical 
conservatism  is  both  cause  and  effect  of  the  trend  towara 
formal  solidarity. 

*  French  Traits.  P.  G.  Hamerton's  works,  especially  his  French 
and  English,  are  also  full  of  suggestion. 

332 


Institutions  and  the  individual 

There  is  also  an  intolerance  of  the  un-French  and  an 
inability  to  understand  it  even  greater,  perhaps,  than  the 
corresponding  phenomenon  in  other  nations.  The  French 
are  self-absorbed  and  care  little  for  the  history  of  other 
peoples.  Nor  are  they  sympathetic  with  contemporaries. 
"In  Paris,  certainly,"  says  Mr.  Brownell,  *'the  foreigner, 
hospitably  as  he  is  invariably  treated,  is  invariably  treated 
as  the  foreigner  that  he  is."* 

The  relative  weakness  of  individuality  in  France  is  due, 
of  course,  not  to  any  lack  of  self-feeling,  but  to  the  fact 
that  the  Frenchman  identifies  himself  more  with  the  social 
whole,  and,  merged  in  that,  does  not  take  his  more  partic- 
ular self  so  seriously.  It  is  rather  a  we-feeling  than  an 
I-feeling,  and  differentiates  France  more  sharply  from 
other  nations  than  it  does  the  individual  Frenchman  from 
his  compatriots.  "He  does  not  admire  France  because 
she  is  his  country.  His  complacence  with  himself  pro- 
ceeds from  the  circumstance  that  he  is  a  Frenchman;  which 
is  distinctly  what  he  is  first,  being  a  man  afterward."  f 
"One  never  hears  the  Frenchman  boast  of  the  character 
and  quality  of  his  compatriots  as  Englishmen  and  our- 
selves do.  He  is  thinking  about  France,  about  her 
different  gloires,  about  her  position  at  the  head  of  civ- 
iHzation."  ij: 

As  there  is  less  individuality  in  general,  so  there  is  a 
happy  lack  of  whimsical  and  offensive  oddity,  of  sharp 
corners  and  bad  taste.  Mr.  Brownell  finds  nothing  more 
significant  than  the  absence  in  France  of  prigs.  "One 
infers  at  once  in  such  a  society  a  free  and  effortless  play 
of  the  faculties,  a  large,  humorous  and  tolerant  view  of 

*  French  Traits,  page  284.  f  Page  295.  J  Page  295. 

333 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

oneself  and  others,  leisure,  calm,  healthful  and  rational 
vivacity,  a  tranquil  confidence  in  one's  own  perceptions 
and  in  the  intelligence  of  one's  neighbors."* 

With  this  partial  irresponsibility,  this  tendency  not  to 
take  one's  private  self  too  seriously,  goes  a  lack  of  moral 
extremes  of  all  kinds.  Their  goodness  is  not  so  good, 
their  vice  not  so  vicious  as  ours.  Both  are  more  derived 
from  immediate  intercourse.  "  What  would  be  vice  among 
us  remains  in  France  social  irregularity  induced  by  senti- 
ment.f" 

These  traits  have  an  obvious  connection  with  that  more 
eager  and  facile  communicativeness  that  strikes  us  so  in 
the  French:  they  have  as  a  rule  less  introspection,  live 
more  immediately  and  congenially  in  a  social  stream  from 
which,  accordingly,  they  are  less  disposed  to  differentiate 
themselves. 

France  is,  no  doubt,  as  truly  democratic  in  its  way  as 
the  United  States;  indeed,  in  no  other  country,  perhaps, 
is  the  prevalent  sentiment  of  the  people  in  a  given  group 
so  cratic,  so  immediately  authoritative.  Such  formalism 
as  prevails  there  is  of  a  sort  with  which  the  people  them- 
selves are  in  intelligent  sympathy,  not  one  imposed  from 
above  like  that  of  Russia,  or  even  that  of  Germany.  But 
it  is  a  democracy  of  a  type  quite  other  than  ours,  less 
differentiated  individually  and  more  so,  perhaps,  by  groups, 
more  consolidated  and  institutional.  The  source  of  this 
divergence  lies  partly  in  the  course  of  history  and  partly, 
no  doubt,  in  race  psychology.  Rooted  dissensions,  like 
that  between  the  Republic  and  the  Church,  and  the  need 
of  keeping  the  people  in  readiness  for  sudden  war,  are 

*  Idem,  page  304.  f  Page  64. 

334 


INSTITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 

among  the  influences  which  make  formal  unity  more 
necessary  and  tolerable  in  France  than  in  England. 

The  French  kind  of  solidarity  has  both  advantages 
and  disadvantages  as  compared  with  the  Anglo-Saxon. 
It  certainly  facilitates  the  formation  of  well-knit  social 
groups;  such,  for  instance,  as  the  artistic  ^'schools" 
whose  vigor  has  done  so  much  toward  giving  France  its 
lead  in  sesthetic  production.  On  the  other  hand,  where 
the  Anglo-Saxon  type  of  structure  succeeds  in  combining 
greater  vigor  of  individuality  with  an  equally  effective 
unity  of  sentiment,  it  would  seem  to  be,  in  so  far,  superior 
to  a  type  whose  solidarity  is  secured  at  more  expense  of 
variation.  It  is  the  self-dependence,  the  so-called  indi- 
vidualism, of  the  Teutonic  peoples  which  has  given  them 
so  decided  a  lead  in  the  industrial  and  pohtical  struggles 
of  recent  times. 

Perhaps  the  most  searching  test  of  solidarity  is  that 
loyalty  of  the  individual  to  the  whole  which  ensures  that, 
however  isolated,  as  a  soldier,  a  pioneer,  a  mechanic,  a 
student,  he  will  cherish  that  whole  in  his  heart  and  do  his 
duty  to  it  in  contempt  of  terror  or  bribes.  And  it  is  pre- 
cisely in  this  that  the  Anglo-Saxon  peoples  are  strong. 
The  Englishman,  though  alone  in  the  wilds  of  Africa,  is 
seldom  other  than  an  Englishman,  setting  his  conscience 
by  English  standards  and  making  them  good  in  action. 
This  moral  whole,  possessing  the  individual  and  making 
every  one  a  hero  after  his  own  private  fashion,  is  the  solid- 
arity  we  want. 

Tradition  comes  down  from  the  past,  while  convention 
arrives,  sidewise  as  it  were,  from  our  contemporaries;  the 

335 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

fireside  tales  and  maxims  of  our  grandparents  illustrate 
the  one,  the  fashions  of  the  day  the  other.  Both  indicate 
continuity  of  mind,  but  tradition  has  a  long  extension  in 
time  and  very  little,  perhaps,  in  place,  while  convention 
extends  in  place  but  may  endure  only  for  a  day. 

This  seems  a  clear  distinction,  and  a  great  deal  has  been 
made  of  it  by  some  writers,  who  regard  '' custom  imitation'* 
and  ''fashion  imitation,"*  to  use  the  terms  of  Tarde,  the, 
brilliant  French  sociologist,  as  among  the  primary  traits 
that  differentiate  societies. 

Thus  mediaeval  society,  it  is  said,  was  traditional:  people 
lived  in  somewhat  isolated  groups  and  were  dominated 
by  the  ideas  of  their  ancestors,  these  being  more  accessible 
than  those  of  their  contemporaries.  On  the  other  hand, 
modern  society,  with  its  telegraphs,  newspapers  and  migra- 
tions, is  conventional.  Thought  is  transmitted  over  vast 
areas  and  countless  multitudes;  ancestral  continuity  is 
broken  up;  people  get  the  habit  of  looking  sidewise  rather 
than  backward,  and  there  comes  to  be  an  instinctive  prefer- 
ence of  fashion  over  custom.  In  the  time  of  Dante,  if  you 
travelled  over  Europe  you  would  find  that  each  town, 
each  district,  had  its  individual  dress,  dialect  and  local 
custom,  handed  down  from  the  fathers.  There  was  much 
change  with  place,  little  with  time.  If  you  did  the  same 
to-day,  you  would  find  the  people  everywhere  dressed 
very  much  alike,  dialects  passing  out  of  use  and  men  eager 
to  identify  themselves  with  the  common  stii  of  contempo- 
rary life.  And  you  would  also  find  that  the  dress,  behavior 
and  objects  of  current  interest,  though  much  the  same 
for  whole  nations  and  having  a  great  deal  in  common  the 
*  Imitation-coutume  and  imitation-mode. 


INSTITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 

world  over,  were  somewhat  transient  in  character,  chang- 
ing much  with  time,  little  with  place. 

There  is,  truly,  a  momentous  difference  in  this  regard 
between  modern  and  mediaeval  life,  but  to  call  it  a  change 
from  tradition  to  convention  does  not,  I  think,  indicate 
its  real  character.  Indeed,  tradition  and  convention  are 
by  no  means  the  separate  and  opposite  things  they  may 
appear  to  be  when  we  look  at  them  in  their  most  contrasted 
phases.  It  would  be  strange  if  there  were  any  real  sepa- 
ration between  ideas  coming  from  the  past  and  those  com- 
ing from  contemporaries,  since  they  exist  in  the  same  pub- 
lic mind.  A  traditional  usage  is  also  a  convention  within 
the  group  where  it  prevails.  One  learns  it  from  other 
people  and  conforms  to  it  by  imitation  and  the  desire  not 
to  be  singular,  just  as  he  does  to  any  other  convention. 
The  quaint  local  costume  that  still  prevails  in  out-of-the- 
way  corners  of  Europe  is  worn  for  the  same  reasons,  no 
doubt,  that  the  equally  peculiar  dress-suit  and  silk  hat  are 
worn  by  sophisticated  people  the  world  over;  one  con- 
vention is  simply  more  extended  than  the  other.  In  old 
times  the  conforming  group,  owing  to  the  difficulty  of 
intercourse,  was  small.  People  were  eager  to  be  in  the 
fashion,  as  they  are  now,  but  they  knew  nothing  of  fashions 
beyond  their  own  locality.  Modern  traditions  are  con- 
ventional on  a  larger  scale.  The  Monroe  Doctrine,  to 
take  a  dignified  example,  is  a  tradition,  regarded  histori- 
cally, but  a  convention  as  to  the  manner  in  which  it  enters 
into  contemporary  opinion. 

In  a  similar  manner  we  may  see  that  conventions  must 
also  be  traditions.     The  new  fashions  are  adaptations  of 

337 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

old  ones,  and  there  are  no  really  new  ideas  of  any  sort, 
only  a  gradual  transformation  of  those  that  have  come 
down  from  the  past. 

In  a  large  view,  then,  tradition  and  convention  are  merely 
aspects  of  the  transmission  of  thought  and  of  the  unity  of 
social  groups  that  results  from  it.  If  our  mind  is  fixed 
upon  the  historical  phase  of  the  matter  we  see  tradition, 
if  upon  the  contemporary  phase  we  see  convention.  But 
the  process  is  really  one,  and  the  opposition  only  particular 
and  apparent.  All  influences  are  contemporary  in  their 
immediate  origin,  all  are  rooted  in  the  past. 

What  is  it,  then,  that  makes  the  difference  between  an 
apparently  traditional  society,  such  as  that  of  mediaeval 
Europe,  and  an  apparently  conventional  society,  like  that 
of  our  time?  Simply  that  the  conditions  are  such  as  to 
make  one  of  these  phases  more  obvious  than  the  other. 
In  a  comparatively  small  and  stable  group,  continuous  in 
the  same  locality  and  having  little  intercourse  with  the 
world  outside,  the  fact  that  ideas  come  from  tradition  is 
evident;  they  pass  down  from  parents  to  children  as 
visibly  as  physical  traits.  Convention,  however,  or  the 
action  of  contemporary  intercourse,  is  on  so  small  a  scale 
as  to  be  less  apparent;  the  length  and  not  the  breadth  of 
the  movement  attracts  the  eye. 

On  the  other  hand,  in  the  case  of  a  wide-reaching  group 
bound  into  conscious  unity  by  facile  communication, 
people  no  longer  look  chiefly  to  their  fathers  for  ideas;  the 
paternal  influence  has  to  compete  with  many  others,  and 
is  further  weakened  by  the  breaking  up  of  family  associa- 
tions which  goes  with  ease  of  movement.     Yet  men  are 

338 


INSTITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 

not  less  dependent  upon  the  past  than  before;  it  is  onl}; 
that  tradition  is  so  intricate  and  so  spread  out  over  the 
face  of  things  that  its  character  as  tradition  is  hardly  to 
be  discovered.  The  obvious  thing  now  is  the  lateral 
movement;  influences  seem  to  come  in  sidewise  and  fash- 
ion rules  over  custom.  The  difference  is  something  like 
that  between  a  multitude  of  disconnected  streamlets  and 
a  single  wide  river,  in  which  the  general  downward 
movement  is  obscured  by  numerous  cross-currents  and 
eddies. 

In  truth,  facile  communication  extends  the  scope  of 
tradition  as  much  as  it  does  that  of  fashion.  All  the  known 
past  becomes  accessible  anywhere,  and  instead  of  the  cult 
of  immediate  ancestors  we  have  a  long-armed,  selective 
appropriation  of  whatever  traditional  ideas  suit  our  tastes. 
For  painting  the  whole  world  goes  to  Renaissance  Italy, 
for  sculpture  to  ancient  Greece,  and  so  on.  Convention 
has  not  gained  as  against  tradition,  but  both  have  been 
transformed. 

In  much  the  same  way  we  may  distinguish  between 
traditionalism  and  conventionalism;  the  one  meaning  a 
dominant  type  of  thought  evidently  handed  down  from 
the  past,  the  other  a  type  formed  by  contemporary  influ- 
ence— but  we  should  not  expect  the  distinction  to  be  any 
more  fundamental  than  before. 

Traditionalism  may  be  looked  for  wherever  there  are 
long-established  groups  somewhat  shut  out  from  lateral 
influence,  either  by  external  conditions  or  by  the  character 
of  their  own  system  of  ideas — in  isolated  rural  communities, 
for  example,  in  old  and  close-knit  organizations  like  the 

339 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

churchy  or  in  introverted  nations  such  as  China  used  to 
be.  Conventionalism  apphes  to  well-knit  types  not  evi^ 
dently  traditional,  and  describes  a  great  part  of  modern 
life. 

The  fact  that  some  phases  of  society  are  more  domi- 
nated by  settled  types,  whether  traditional  or  conventionalj 
than  others,  indicates,  of  course,  a  certain  equilibrium 
of  influences  in  them,  and  a  comparative  absence  of  com- 
peting ideas.  This,  in  turn,  is  favored  by  a  variety  of 
causes.  One  is  a  lack  of  individuality  and  self-assertive- 
ness  on  the  part  of  the  people — as  the  French  are  said  to 
conform  to  types  more  readily  than  the  English  or  Ameri- 
cans. Another  requisite  is  the  lapse  of  sufficient  time 
for  the  type  to  establish  itself  and  mould  men's  actions 
into  conformity;  even  fashion  cannot  be  made  in  a  min- 
ute. A  third  is  that  there  should  be  enough  interest  in 
the  matter  that  non-conformity  may  be  noticed  and  dis- 
approved; and  yet  not  enough  interest  to  foster  origi- 
nality. We  are  most  imitative  when  we  notice  but  do  not 
greatly  care.  Still  another  favoring  condition  is  the  habit 
of  deference  to  some  authority,  which  may  impose  the 
type  by  example. 

Thus  the  educated  classes  of  England  are,  perhaps, 
more  conventional  in  dress  and  manner  than  the  corre- 
sponding classes  in  the  United  States.  If  so,  the  expla- 
nation is  probably  not  in  any  intrinsic  difference  of  indi- 
viduality, but  in  conditions  more  or  less  favorable  to  the 
ripening  of  types;  such  as  the  comparative  newness  and 
confusion  of  American  civilization,  the  absence  of  an  ac- 
knowledged upper  class  to  set  an  authoritative  example, 
and  a  certain  lack  of  interest  in  the  externals  of  life  which 

340 


INSTITUTIONS  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL 

our  restlessness  seems  to  foster.*  On  the  other  hand,  it 
must  be  said  that  the  insecurity  of  position  and  more  im- 
mediate dependence  upon  the  opinion  of  one^s  fellows, 
which  exist  in  America,  have  a  tendency  toward  conven- 
tionalism, because  they  make  the  individual  more  eager  to 
appear  well  in  the  eyes  of  others.  It  is  a  curious  fact, 
which  may  illustrate  this  principle,  that  the  House  of 
Commons,  the  more  democratic  branch  of  the  British 
legislature,  is  described  as  more  conventional  than  the 
House  of  Lords.  Probably  if  standards  were  sufficiently 
developed  in  America  there  would  be  no  more  difficulty 
in  enforcing  them  than  in  England. 

Perhaps  we  should  hit  nearest  the  truth  if  we  said  that 
American  life  had  conventions  of  its  own,  vaguer  than  the 
British  and  putting  less  weight  on  forms  and  more  on 
fellow-feeling,  but  not  necessarily  less  cogent. 

*  Americans  should  notice  that  what  they  are  apt  to  call  the 
snobbishness  of  the  English  middle  class — their  anxiety  to  imitate 
those  whom  they  regard  as  social  superiors — has  its  good  result  in 
producing  a  discipline  in  which  many  of  us  are  somewhat  grossly 
lacking.  It  may  be  better,  in  manners  for  instance,  that  people 
should  adopt  a  standard  from  questionable  motives  than  that  they 
should  have  no  standard  at  all.  The  trouble  with  us  is  the  preva- 
lence of  a  sprawling,  gossiping  self-content  that  does  not  know  or 
care  whether  such  things  as  manners,  art  and  literature  exist  or  not. 


341 


CHAPTER  XXX 
FORMALISM  AND  DISORGANIZATION 

The  Nature  of  Formalism — Its  Effect  upon  Personality- 
Formalism  IN  Modern  Life — Disorganization,  "  Individ- 
ualism"— How  IT  Affects  the  Individual — Relation  to 
Formalism — "  Individualism  "  Implies  Defective  Sympathy 
— Contemporary  "  Individualism  " — Restlessness  under 
Discomfort — The  Better  Aspect  of  Disorganization. 

Too  much  mechanism  in  society  gives  us  something  for 
which  there  are  many  names,  slightly  different  in  meaning, 
as  institutionalism,  formalism,  traditionalism,  conven- 
tionalism, ritualism,  bureaucracy  and  the  like.  It  is  by 
no  means  easy,  however,  to  determine  whether  mechan- 
ism is  in  excess  or  not.  It  becomes  an  evil,  no  doubt, 
when  it  interferes  with  growth  and  adaptation,  when  it 
suppresses  individuality  and  stupefies  or  misdirects  the 
energies  of  human  nature.  But  just  when  this  is  the  case 
is  likely  not  to  be  clear  until  the  occasion  is  long  past  and 
we  can  see  the  matter  in  the  perspective  of  history. 

Thus,  in  religion,  it  is  well  that  men  should  adhere  to 
the  creeds  and  ritual  worked  out  in  the  past  for  spiritual 
edification,  so  long  as  these  do,  on  the  whole,  fulfil  their 
function;  and  it  is  hard  to  fix  the  time — not  the  same  for 
different  churches,  classes  or  individuals — when  they  cease 
to  do  this.  But  it  is  certain  that  they  die,  in  time,  like 
all  tissue,  and  if  not  cleared  away  presently  rot. 

It  has  been  well  said  that  formalism  is  ''an  excess  of 
the  organ  of  language."*    The  aim  of  all  organization  is 
*  The  Poet.    Emerson. 
342 


FORMALISM  AND  DISORGANIZATION 

to  express  human  nature,  and  it  does  this  through  a  system 
of  symbols,  which  are  the  embodiment  and  vehicle  of  the 
idea.  So  long  as  spirit  and  symbol  are  vitally  united 
and  the  idea  is  really  conveyed,  all  is  well,  but  so  fast 
as  they  are  separated  the  symbol  becomes  an  empty 
shell,  to  which,  however,  custom,  pride  or  interest  may 
still  cling.  It  then  supplants  rather  than  conveys  the 
reality. 

Underlying  all  formalism,  indeed,  is  the  fact  that  it  is 
psychically  cheap;  it  substitutes  the  outer  for  the  inner 
as  more  tangible,  more  capable  of  being  held  before  the 
mind  without  fresh  expense  of  thought  and  feeling,  more 
easily  extended,  therefore,  and  impressed  upon  the  multi- 
tude. Thus  in  our  own  architecture  or  literature  we  have 
innumerable  cheap,  unfelt  repetitions  of  forms  that  were 
significant  and  beautiful  in  their  time  and  place. 

The  effect  of  formalism  upon  personality  is  to  starve 
its  higher  life  and  leave  it  the  prey  of  apathy,  self-com- 
placency, sensuality  and  the  lower  nature  in  general. 
A  formalized  religion  and  a  formalized  freedom  are, 
notoriously,  the  congenial  dwelling-place  of  depravity 
and  oppression. 

When  a  system  of  this  sort  is  thoroughly  established, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  later  Roman  Empire,  it  confines  the 
individual  mind  as  in  a  narrow  cage  by  supplying  it  with 
only  one  sort  of  suggestions.  The  variation  of  ideas  and 
the  supplanting  of  old  types  by  new  can  begin  only  by 
individuals  getting  hold  of  suggestions  that  conflict  with 
those  of  the  ruling  system;  and  in  the  absence  of  this  an 
old  type  may  go  on  reproducing  itself  indefinitely,  indi* 

343 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

viduals  seeming  no  more  to  it  than  the  leaves  of  a  tree, 

wliich  drop  in  the  autumn  and  in  the  spring  are  leplaced 
by  others  indistinguishable  from  them.  It  '^ breeds  true" 
on  the  same  principle  that  wild  pigeons,  long  kept  to  a 
fixed  type  by  natural  limitations,  are  less  variable  than 
domestic  species,  in  whose  recent  past  there  have  been 
elements  of  change. 

Among  the  Hindoos,  for  instance,  a  child  is  brought  up 
from  infancy  in  subjection  to  ceremonies  and  rites  which 
stamp  upon  him  the  impression  of  a  fixed  and  immemorial 
system.  They  control  the  most  minute  details  of  his  life, 
and  leave  little  room  for  choice  either  on  his  part  or  that 
of  his  parents.  There  is  no  attempt  to  justify  tradition 
by  reason:  custom  as  such  is  obligatory. 

Intolerance  goes  very  naturally  with  formalism,  since 
to  a  mind  in  the  unresisted  grasp  of  a  fixed  system  of 
thought  anything  that  departs  from  that  system  must 
appear  irrational  and  absurd.  The  lowest  Chinaman  un- 
affectedly despises  the  foreigner,  of  whatever  rank,  as 
a  vulgar  barbarian,  just  as  Christians  used  to  despise  the 
Jews,  and  the  Jews,  in  their  time,  the  Samaritans. 
Tolerance  comes  in  along  with  peaceful  discussion,  when 
there  is  a  competition  of  various  ways  of  thinking,  no  one 
of  which  is  strong  enough  to  suppress  the  others. 

In  America  and  western  Europe  at  the  present  day 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  formalism,  but  it  is,  on  the  whole, 
of  a  partial  and  secondary  character,  existing  rather  from 
the  inadequacy  of  vital  force  than  as  a  ruling  principle. 
The  general  state  of  thought  favors  adaptation,  because 
we  are  used  to  it  and  have  found  it  on  the  whole  beneficial. 

344 


FORMALISM  AND  DISORGANIZATION 

We  expect,  for  example,  that  a  more  vital  and  flexible 
form  of  organization  will  supplant  the  rigid  systems  of 
Russia  and  the  Orient,  and  whatever  in  our  own  world 
is  analogous  to  these. 

But  dead  mechanism  is  too  natural  a  product  of  human 
conditions  not  to  exist  at  all  times,  and  we  may  easily  find 
it  to-day  in  the  church,  in  politics,  in  education,  industry 
and  philanthropy;  wherever  there  is  a  lack  of  vital 
thought  and  sentiment  to  keep  the  machinery  pliant  to 
its  work. 

Thus  our  schools,  high  and  low,  exhibit  a  great  deal  of 
it.  Routine  methods,  here  as  everywhere,  are  a  device 
for  turning  out  cheap  work  in  large  quantities,  and  the 
temptation  to  use  them,  in  the  case  of  a  teacher  who  has 
too  much  to  do,  or  is  required  to  do  that  which  he  does  not 
understand  or  believe  in,  is  almost  irresistible.  Indeed, 
they  are  too  frequently  inculcated  by  principals  and  train- 
ing schools,  in  contempt  of  the  fact  that  the  one  essential 
thing  in  real  teaching  is  a  personal  expression  between 
teacher  and  pupil.  Drill  is  easy  for  one  who  has  got  the 
knack  of  it,  just  because  it  requires  nothing  vital  or  per- 
sonal, but  is  a  convenient  appliance  for  getting  the  busi- 
ness done  with  an  appearance  of  success  and  little  trouble 
to  any  one. 

Even  universities  have  much  of  this  sort  of  cant.  In 
literature,  for  instance,  whether  ancient  or  modern,  Eng- 
lish or  foreign,  little  that  is  vital  is  commonly  imparted. 
Compelled  by  his  position  to  teach  something  to  large 
and  diverse  classes,  the  teacher  is  led  to  fix  upon  certain 
matters — such  as  grammar,  metres,  or  the  biographies 
of  the  authors — whose  definiteness  suits  them  for  the  didac- 

34.^ 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

tic  purpose,  and  drill  them  into  the  student;  while  the 
real  thing,  the  sentiments  that  are  the  soul  of  literature, 
are  not  communicated.  If  the  teacher  himself  feels  them, 
which  is  often  the  case,  the  fact  that  they  cannot  be  re- 
duced to  formulas  and  tested  by  examinations  discourages 
him  from  dwelling  upon  them. 

In  like  manner  our  whole  system  of  commerce  and  in- 
dustry is  formal  in  the  sense  that  it  is  a  vast  machine 
grinding  on  and  on  in  a  blind  way  which  is  often  de- 
structive of  the  human  nature  for  whose  service  it  exists. 
Mammon — as  in  the  painting  by  Watts — is  not  a  fiend, 
wilfully  crushing  the  woman's  form  that  lies  under  his 
hand,  but  only  a  somewhat  hardened  man  of  the  world, 
looking  in  another  direction  and  preoccupied  with  the 
conduct  of  business  upon  business  principles. 

A  curious  instance  of  the  same  sort  of  thing  is  the  stereo- 
typing of  language  by  the  cheap  press  and  the  habit  of 
hasty  reading.  The  newspapers  are  called  upon  to  give 
a  maximum  of  commonplace  information  for  a  minimum 
of  attention,  and  in  doing  this  are  led  to  adopt  a  small 
standard  vocabulary  and  a  uniform  arrangement  of 
words  and  sentences.  All  that  requires  fresh  thought, 
either  from  reader  or  writer,  is  avoided  to  the  greater 
comfort  of  both.  The  telegraph  plays  a  considerable 
part  in  this,  and  an  observer  familiar  with  its  technique 
points  out  how  it  puts  a  premium  on  long  but  unmistak- 
able words,  on  conventional  phrases  (for  which  the  oper- 
ators have  brief  signs)  and  on  a  sentence  structure  so 
obvious  that  it  cannot  be  upset  by  mistakes  in  punctuation.* 

*  See  the  article  by  R.  L.  O'Brien  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Oct., 
1904. 

346 


FORMALISM  AND  DISORGANIZATION 

In  this  way  our  newspapers,  and  the  magazines  and  books 
that  partake  of  their  character,  are  the  seat  of  a  conven- 
tionaUsm  perhaps  as  destructive  of  the  spirit  of  hterature 
as  ecclesiasticism  is  of  the  spirit  of  Christianity. 

The  apparent  opposite  of  formaUsm,  but  in  reahty 
closely  akin  to  it,  is  disorganization  or  disintegration, 
often,  though  inaccurately,  called  ''individuaKsm."* 
One  is  mechanism  supreme,  the  other  mechanism  going 
to  pieces;  and  both  are  in  contrast  to  that  harmony  be- 
tween human  nature  and  its  instruments  which  is  desirable. 

In  this  state  of  things  general  order  and  discipline  are 
lacking.  Though  there  may  be  praiseworthy  persons 
and  activities,  society  as  a  whole  wants  unity  and  ration- 
ality, like  a  picture  which  is  good  in  details  but  does  not 
make  a  pleasing  composition.  Individuals  and  special 
groups  appear  to  be  working  too  much  at  cross  purposes; 
there  is  a  "reciprocal  struggle  of  discordant  powers"  but 
the  *' harmony  of  the  universe"  does  not  emerge.  As 
good  actors  do  not  always  make  a  good  troupe  nor  brave 
soldiers  a  good  army,  so  a  nation  or  a  historical  epoch — 
say  Italy  in  the  Renaissance— may  be  prolific  in  distin- 
guished persons  and  scattered  achievements  but  somewhat 
futile  and  chaotic  as  a  system. 

Disorganization  appears  in  the  individual  as  a  mind 
without  cogent  and  abiding  allegiance  to  a  whole,  and 
without  the  larger  principles  of  conduct  that  flow  from 
such  allegiance.    The  better  aspect  of  this  is  that  the  lack 

*  Inaccurately,  because  the  full  development  of  the  individuail 
requires  organization 

347 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

of  support  may  stimulate  a  man  to  greater  activity  and 
independence,  the  worse  that  the  absence  of  social  stand- 
ards is  likely  to  lower  his  plane  of  achievement  and  throw 
him  back  upon  sensuality  and  other  primitive  impulses: 
also  that,  if  he  is  of  a  sensitive  fibre,  he  is  apt  to  be  over- 
strained by  che  contest  with  untoward  conditions.  How 
soothing  and  elevating  it  is  to  breathe  the  atmosphere  of 
some  large  and  quiet  discipline.  I  remember  feeling  this 
in  reading  Lord  Roberts'  Forty-one  Years  in  India,  a 
book  pervaded  with  one  great  and  simple  thought,  the 
Anglo-Indian  service,  which  dominates  all  narrow  con- 
siderations and  gives  people  a  worthy  ideal  to  live  by. 
How  rarely,  in  our  day,  is  a  book  or  a  man  dominated  by 
restful  and  unquestioned  faith  in  anything! 

The  fact  that  great  personalities  often  appear  in  dis- 
ordered times  may  seem  to  be  a  contradiction  of  the  prin- 
ciple that  the  healthy  development  of  individuals  is  one 
with  that  of  institutions.  Thus  the  Italian  Renaissance, 
which  was  a  time  of  political  disorder  and  religious  decay, 
produced  the  greatest  painters  and  sculptors  of  modern 
times,  and  many  great  personalities  in  Hterature  and  states- 
manship. But  the  genius  which  may  appear  in  such  a 
period  is  always,  in  one  point  of  view,  the  fruitage  of  a  fore- 
going and  traditional  development,  never  a  merely  personal 
phenomenon.  That  this  was  true  of  Renaissance  art 
needs  no  exposition;  Hke  every  great  achievement  it  was 
founded  upon  organization. 

It  is  no  doubt  the  case,  however,  that  there  is  a  spur  in 
the  struggles  of  a  confused  time  which  may  excite  a  few 
individuals  to  heroic  efforts  and  accomplishment,  just  as 
a  fire  or  a  railroad  disaster  may  be  the  occasion  of  heroism; 

348 


FORMALISM  AND  DISORGANIZATION 

and  so  the  disorder  of  the  Renaissance  was  perhaps  one 
cause  of  the  men  of  genius,  as  well  as  of  the  demoraliza- 
tion which  they  did  not  escape. 

It  looks  at  first  sight  as  if  formalism  and  disorganiza- 
tion were  as  far  apart  as  possible,  but  in  fact  they  are 
closely  connected,  the  latter  being  only  the  next  step  after 
the  former  in  a  logical  sequence — the  decay  of  a  body  al- 
ready dead.  Formalism  goes  very  naturally  with  sen- 
suality, avarice,  selfish  ambition,  and  other  traits  of  dis- 
organization, because  the  merely  formal  institution  does 
not  enlist  and  discipline  the  soul  of  the  individual,  but 
takes  hold  of  him  by  the  outside,  his  personality  being  left 
to  torpor  or  to  irreverent  and  riotous  activity.  So  in  the 
later  centuries  of  the  Roman  Empire,  when  its  system 
was  most  rigid,  the  people  became  unpatriotic,  disorderly 
and  sensual. 

In  the  same  way  a  school  whose  discipline  is  merely 
formal,  not  engaging  the  interest  and  good-will  of  the 
scholar,  is  pretty  certain  to  turn  out  unruly  boys  and  girls, 
because  whatever  is  most  personal  and  vital  in  them  be- 
comes accustomed  to  assert  itself  in  opposition  to  the  sys- 
tem. And  so  in  a  church  where  external  observance 
has  been  developed  at  the  expense  of  personal  judgment, 
the  individual  conforms  to  the  rite  and  then  feels  free  for 
all  kinds  of  self-indulgence.  In  general  the  lower  ''indi- 
vidualism "  of  our  time,  the  ruthless  self-assertion  which  is 
so  conspicuous,  for  example,  in  business,  is  not  something 
apart  from  our  institutions  but  expresses  the  fact  that  they 
are  largely  formal  and  unhuman,  not  containing  and  en- 
larging the  soul  of  the  individual. 

349 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

The  real  opposite  of  both  formalism  and  disorder  is  that 
wholesome  relation  between  individuality  and  the  insti- 
tution in  which  each  supports  the  other,  the  latter  con- 
tributing a  stable  basis  for  the  vitality  and  variation  of 
the  former. 

From  one  point  of  view  disorganization  is  a  lack  of 
communication  and  social  consciousness,  a  defect  in  the 
organ  of  language,  as  formalism  is  an  excess.  There  is 
always,  I  suppose,  a  larger  whole;  the  question  is  whether 
the  individual  thinks  and  feels  it  vividly  through  some 
sort  of  sympathetic  contact;  if  he  does  he  will  act  as  a 
member  of  it. 

In  the  waitings  of  one  of  the  most  searching  and  yet 
hopeful  critics  of  our  times*  we  find  that  '' individualism" 
is  identified  primarily  with  an  isolation  of  sentiment,  like 
that  of  the  scholar  in  his  study,  the  business  man  in  his 
office  or  the  mechanic  who  does  not  feel  the  broader  mean- 
ing of  his  work.  The  opposite  of  it  is  the  life  of  shoulder- 
to-shoulder  sympathy  and  cooperation,  in  which  the  de- 
sire for  separate  power  or  distinction  is  lost  in  the  overrul- 
ing sense  of  common  humanity.  And  the  logical  remedy 
for  ''individualism"  is  sought  in  that  broadening  of  the 
spirit  by  immediate  contact  with  the  larger  currents  of 
life,  which  is  the  aim  of  the  social  setdement  and  similar 
movements. 

This  is,  indeed,  an  inspiring  and  timely  Ideal,  but  let  us 

hold  it  without  forgetting  that  specialized  and  lonesome 

endeavor,  indeed  even  individual  pride  and  self-seeking, 

have  also  their  uses.     If  we  dwell  too  exclusively  upon  the 

*  Jane  Addams. 

350 


FORMALISM  AND  DISORGANIZATION 

we-feeling  and  the  loss  of  the  one  in  the  many,  we  may 
lapse  into  a  structureless  emotionalism.  Eye-to-eye  fellow- 
ship and  the  pride  of  solitary  achievement  are  both  essen- 
tial, each  in  its  own  way,  to  human  growth,  and  either  is 
capable  of  over-indulgence.  We  need  the  most  erect  in- 
dividual with  the  widest  base  of  sympathy. 

In  so  far  as  it  is  true  of  our  time  that  the  larger  inter- 
ests of  society  are  not  impressed  upon  the  individual,  so 
that  his  private  impulses  cooperate  with  the  public  good, 
it  is  a  time  of  moral  disintegration.  A  well-ordered  com- 
munity is  like  a  ship  in  which  each  officer  and  seaman 
has  confidence  in  his  fellows  and  in  the  captain,  and  is 
well  accustomed  to  do  his  duty  with  no  more  than  ordi- 
nary grumbling.  All  hangs  together,  and  is  subject  to 
reason  in  the  form  of  long-tried  rules  of  navigation  and 
discipline.  Virtue  is  a  system  and  men  do  heroic  acts  as 
part  of  the  day's  work  and  without  self-consciousness. 
But  suppose  that  the  ship  goes  to  pieces — let  us  say  upon 
an  iceberg — then  the  orderly  whole  is  broken  up  and 
officers,  seamen  and  passengers  find  themselves  struggling 
miscellaneously  in  the  water.  Rational  control  and  the 
virtue  that  is  habit  being  gone,  each  one  is  thrown  back 
upon  his  undisciplined  impulses.  Survival  depends  not 
upon  wisdom  or  goodness — as  it  largely  does  in  a  social 
system — but  upon  ruthless  force,  and  the  best  may  prob- 
ably perish. 

Here  is  "individualism"  in  the  lowest  sense,  and  it  is 
the  analogue  of  this  which  is  said,  not  without  some  reason, 
to  pervade  our  own  society.  Old  institutions  are  passing 
away  and  better  ones,  we  hope,  are  preparing  to  take  their 

351 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

place,  but  in  the  meantime  there  is  a  lack  of  that  higher 
discipline  which  prints  the  good  of  the  whole  upon  the 
heart  of  the  member.  In  a  traditional  order  one  is  ac- 
customed from  childhood  to  regard  usage,  the  authority 
of  elders  and  the  dominant  institutions  as  the  rule  of  life. 
''So  it  must  be"  is  one's  unconscious  conviction,  and, 
like  the  seaman,  he  does  wise  and  heroic  things  without 
knowing  it.  But  in  our  own  time  there  is  for  many  per- 
sons, if  not  most,  no  authoritative  canon  of  life,  and  for 
better  or  worse  we  are  ruled  by  native  impulse  and  by 
that  private  reason  which  may  be  so  weak  when  detached 
from  a  rational  whole.  The  higher  morality,  if  it  is  to  be 
attained  at  all,  must  be  specially  thought  out;  and  of  the 
few  who  can  do  this  a  large  part  exhaust  their  energy  in 
thinking  and  do  not  practise  with  any  heartiness  the 
truths  they  perceive. 

We  find,  then,  that  people  have  to  make  up  their  own 
minds  upon  their  duties  as  wives,  husbands,  mothers  and 
daughters;  upon  commercial  obligation  and  citizenship; 
upon  the  universe  and  the  nature  and  authority  of  God. 
Inevitably  many  of  us  make  a  poor  business  of  it.  It  is 
too  much.  It  is  as  if  each  one  should  sit  down  to  invent 
a  language  for  himself:  these  things  should  be  thought 
out  gradually,  cooperatively  each  adding  little  and  ac- 
cepting much.  That  great  traditions  should  rapidly  go 
^to  pieces  may  be  a  necessary  phase  of  evolution  and  a 
disguised  blessing,  but  the  present  effect  is  largely  dis- 
traction and  demoralization. 

In  particular,  we  notice  that  few  who  have  burdens  to 
bear  are  much  under  the  control  of  submissive  tradition, 

352 


FORMALISM  AND  DISORGANIZATION 

but  every  one  asks  "Why  must  I  bear  this  ?"  and  the  pain 
of  trying  to  see  why  is  often  worse  than  the  evil  itself. 
There  is  commonly  no  obvious  reason,  and  the  answer 
is  often  a  sense  of  rebellion  and  a  bitterness  out  of  which 
comes,  perhaps,  recklessness,  divorce,  or  suicide. 

^Miy  am  I  poor  while  others  are  rich  ?  Why  do  I  have 
to  do  work  I  do  not  like  ?  \Miy  should  I  be  honest  when 
others  are  unscrupulous  ?  Why  should  I  wear  myself  out 
bearing  and  rearing  children  ?  \\Tiy  should  I  be  faithful 
to  my  husband  or  wife  when  we  are  not  happy  together, 
and  another  would  please  me  better?  Why  should  I 
believe  in  a  good  God  when  all  I  know  is  a  bad  world  ? 
Why  should  I  live  when  I  wish  to  die  ?  Never,  probably, 
were  so  many  asking  such  questions  as  this  and  finding 
no  clear  answer.  There  have  been  other  times  of  anal- 
ogous confusion,  but  it  could  never  have  penetrated  so 
deeply  into  the  masses  as  it  does  in  these  days  of  universal 
stir  and  communication. 

How  contemptible  these  calculations  seem  in  compari- 
son with  the  attitude  of  the  soldier,  who  knows  that  he 
must  suffer  privation  and  not  improbably  death,  and  yet 
faces  the  prospect  quite  cheerfully,  with  a  certain  pride  in 
his  self-devotion.  In  this  spirit,  evidently,  all  the  duties 
of  life  ought  to  be  taken  up.  But  the  soldier,  the  seaman, 
the  fireman,  the  brakeman,  the  doctor  and  others  whose 
trade  leads  them  into  obvious  peril  have  one  great  ad- 
vantage: they  know  what  their  duty  is  and  have  no  other 
thought  than  to  do  it;  there  is  no  mental  distraction  to 
complicate  the  situation.  And  as  fast  as  principles  be- 
come settled  and  habits  formed,  people  will  be  as  heroic 
in  other  function^  as  thsy  are  in  these. 

-^53 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

We  may  apply  to  many  in  our  own  time  the  words  ot 
Burckhardt  in  describing  the  disorganization  of  the  Renais- 
sance: "The  sight  of  victorious  egoism  in  others  drives 
him  to  defend  his  own  right  by  his  own  arm.  And,  while 
thinking  to  restore  his  inward  equilibrium,  he  falls,  through 
the  vengeance  which  he  executes,  into  the  hands  of  the 
powers  of  darkness."  That  is,  we  think  we  must  be  as 
selfish  as  other  people,  but  find  that  selfishness  is  misery. 
I  notice  that  many  men,  even  of  much  natural  sympathy 
and  fellow-feeling,  have  accepted  ''every  man  for  himself" 
as  a  kind  of  dogma,  making  themselves  believe  that  it  is 
the  necessary  rule  of  a  competitive  society,  and  practising 
it  with  a  kind  of  fanaticism  which  goes  against  their  better 
natures.  Perhaps  the  sensitive  are  more  apt  to  do  this 
than  others — because  they  are  more  upset  by  the  spectacle 
of  ''victorious  egoism"  around  them.  But  the  true  good 
of  the  individual  is  found  only  in  subordinating  himself  to 
a  rational  whole;  and  in  turning  against  others  he  destroys 
himself. 

The  embittered  and  distracted  individual  must  be  a 
bad  citizen.  There  is  the  same  kind  of  moral  difference 
between  those  who  feel  life  as  a  rational  whole,  and  so 
have  some  sort  of  a  belief  in  God,  as  there  is  between  an 
army  that  believes  in  its  commander  and  one  that  does 
not.  In  either  case  the  feeling  does  much  to  bring  about 
its  own  justification. 

The  fact  that  the  breaking  up  of  traditions  throws  men 
back  upon  immediate  human  nature  has,  however,  its 
good  as  well  as  its  bad  side.  It  may  obscure  those  larger 
truths  that  are  the  growth  of  time  and  may  let  loose  pride, 

354 


FORMALISM  AND  DISORGANIZATION 

sensuality  and  scepticism;  but  it  also  awakens  the  child 
in  man  and  a  childlike  pliability  to  the  better  as  well  as  tht 
worse  in  natural  impulse,  ^\e  may  look,  among  people 
who  have  lost  the  sense  of  tradition,  for  the  sort  of  virtues, 
as  well  as  of  vices,  that  we  find  on  the  frontier:  for  plain 
dealing,  love  of  character  and  force,  kindness,  hope,  hos« 
pitality  and  courage.  Alongside  of  an  extravagant  growth 
of  sensuality,  pride  and  caprice,  we  have  about  us  a  gen- 
eral cult  of  childhood  and  womanhood,  a  vast  philan- 
thropy, and  an  interest  in  everything  relating  to  the  wel- 
fare of  the  masses  of  the  people.  The  large  private  gifts 
to  philanthropic  and  educational  purposes,  and  the  fact 
that  a  great  deal  of  personal  pride  is  mingled  with  these 
gifts,  are  equally  characteristic  of  the  time. 

And,  after  all,  there  is  never  any  general  state  of  ex- 
treme disintegration.  Such  as  our  time  suffers  from  in 
art  and  social  relations  is  chiefly  the  penalty  of  a  concen- 
tration of  thought  upon  material  production  and  physical 
science.  In  these  fields  there  is  no  lack  of  unified  and 
cumulative  endeavor — though  unhuman  in  some  aspects 
— resulting  in  total  achievement.  If  we  have  not  Dante 
and  gothic  architecture,  we  have  Darwin  and  the  modern 
railway.  And  as  fast  as  the  general  mind  turns  to  other 
aims  we  may  hope  that  our  chaotic  material  will  take  on 
order. 


355 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

DISORGANIZATION:  THE  FAMILY 

Old  and  New  Regimes  in  the  Family — The  Declining  Birth 
Rate — "  Spoiled  "  Children — The  Opening  of  New  Careers 
TO  Women — European  and  American  Points  of  View — 
Personal  Factors  in  Divorce — Institutional  Factors — 
Conclusion. 

The  mediseval  family,  like  other  mediaeval  institutions, 
was  dominated  by  comparatively  setded  traditions  which 
reflected  the  needs  of  the  general  system  of  society. 
Marriage  was  thought  of  chiefly  as  an  alliance  of  interests, 
and  was  arranged  by  the  ruling  members  of  the  families 
concerned  on  grounds  of  convenance,  the  personal  con- 
geniality of  the  parties  being  little  considered. 

We  know  that  this  view  of  marriage  has  still  consider- 
able force  among  the  more  conservative  classes  of  Euro- 
pean society,  and  that  royalty  or  nobility,  on  the  one  hand, 
and  the  peasantry,  on  the  other,  adhere  to  the  idea  that 
it  is  a  family  rather  than  a  personal  function,  which  should 
be  arranged  on  grounds  of  rank  and  wealth.  In  France 
it  is  hardly  respectable  to  make  a  romantic  marriage, 
and  Mr.  Hamerton  tells  of  a  young  woman  who  was  in- 
dignant at  a  rumor  that  she  had  been  wedded  for  love,  in- 
sisting that  it  had  been  strictly  a  matter  of  convenance. 
He  also  mentions  a  young  man  who  was  compelled  to  ask 
his  mother  which  of  two  sisters  he  had  just  met  was  to  be 
his  wife.* 

*  Frencli  and  English,  357. 
356 


DISORGANIZATION:  THE  FAMILY 

Along  with  this  subordination  of  choice  in  contracting 
marriage  generally  went  an  autocratic  family  discipline. 
Legally  the  wife  and  children  had  no  separate  rights,  their 
personality  being  merged  in  that  of  the  husband  and 
father,  while  socially  the  latter  was  ratLer  their  master 
than  their  companion.  His  rule,  however — though  it  was 
no  doubt  harsh  and  often  brutal,  judged  by  our  notions 
— was  possibly  not  so  arbitrary  and  whimsical  as  would 
be  the  exercise  of  similar  authority  in  our  day;  since  he 
was  himself  subordinate  not  only  to  social  superiors,  but 
still  more  to  traditional  ideas,  defining  his  own  duties 
and  those  of  his  household,  which  he  felt  bound  to  carry 
out.  The  whole  system  was  authoritative,  admitting  little 
play  of  personal  choice. 

Evidently  the  drift  of  modern  life  is  away  from  this  state 
of  things.  The  decay  of  settled  traditions,  embracing  not 
only  those  relating  directly  to  the  family  but  also  the  re- 
ligious and  economic  ideas  by  which  these  were  supported, 
has  thrown  us  back  upon  the  unschooled  impulses  of 
human  nature.  In  entering  upon  marriage  the  personal 
tastes  of  the  couple  demand  gratification,  and,  right  or 
wrong,  there  is  no  authority  strong  enough  to  hold  them 
in  check.  Nor,  if  upon  experience  it  turns  out  that  per- 
sonal tastes  are  not  gratified,  is  there  commonly  any  insu- 
perable obstacle  to  a  dissolution  of  the  tie.  Being  married, 
they  have  children  so  long  as  they  find  it,  on  the  whole, 
agreeable  to  their  inclinations  to  do  so,  but  when  this  point 
is  reached  they  proceed  to  exercise  choice  by  refusing  to 
bear  and  rear  any  more.  And  as  the  spirit  of  choice  is  in 
the  air,  the  children  are  not  slow  to  inhale  it  and  to  exercise 
their  own  wills  in  accordance  with  the  same  law  of  im- 

357 


v.. 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

pulse  their  elders  seem  to  follow.  *'Do  as  you  please  so 
long  as  you  do  not  evidently  harm  others  "  is  the  only  rule 
of  ethics  that  has  much  life;  there  is  little  regard  for  any 
higher  discipline,  for  the  slowly  built  traditions  of  a  deeper 
right  and  wrong  which  cannot  be  justified  to  the  feelings 
of  the  moment. 

Among  the  phases  of  this  domestic  "individualism"  or 
relapse  to  impulse  are  a  declining  birth-rate  among  the 
comfortable  classes,  some  lack  of  discipline  and  respect 
in  children,  a  growing  independence  of  women  accom- 
panied by  alleged  neglect  of  the  family,  and  an  increase  of 
divorce. 

The  causes  of  decline  in  the  birth-rate  are  clearly 
psychological,  being,  in  general,  that  people  prefer  am- 
bition and  luxury  to  the  large  families  that  would  inter- 
fere with  them. 

Freedom  of  opportunity  diffuses  a  restless  desire  to 
rise  in  the  world,  beneficent  from  many  points  of  view 
but  by  no  means  favorable  to  natural  increase.  Men  de- 
mand more  of  life  in  the  way  of  personal  self-realization 
than  in  the  past,  and  it  takes  a  longer  time  and  more 
energy  to  get  it,  the  consequence  being  that  marriage  is 
postponed  and  the  birth-rate  in  marriage  deliberately 
restricted.  The  young  people  of  the  well-to-do  classes, 
among  whom  ambition  is  most  developed,  commonly  feel 
poorer  in  regard  to  this  matter  than  the  hand-workers,  so 
that  we  find  in  England,  for  instance,  that  the  professional 
men  marry  at  an  average  age  of  thirty-one,  while  miners 
marry  at  twenty-four.  Moreover,  while  the  hand-work- 
ing classes,  both  on  the  farms  and  in  towns,  expect  to 

358 


DISORGANIZATION:  THE  FAMILY 

make  their  children  more  than  pay  for  themselves  after 
they  are  fourteen  years  old,  a  large  family  thus  becoming 
an  investment  for  future  profit,  the  well-to-do,  on  the  con- 
trary, see  in  their  children  a  source  of  indefinitely  con- 
tinuous expense.  And  the  trend  of  things  is  bringing  an 
ever  larger  proportion  of  the  people  within  the  ambitious 
classes  and  subject  to  this  sort  of  checks. 

The  spread  of  luxury,  or  even  comfort,  works  in  the 
same  direction  by  creating  tastes  and  habits  unfavorable 
to  the  bearing  and  rearing  of  many  children.  Among 
those  whose  life,  in  general,  is  hard  these  things  are  not 
harder  than  the  rest,  and  a  certain  callousness  of  mind 
that  is  apt  to  result  from  monotonous  physical  labor 
renders  people  less  subject  to  anxiety,  as  a  rule,  than  those 
who  might  appear  to  have  less  occasion  for  it.  The  joy 
of  children,  the  'Tuxury  of  the  poor,"  may  also  appear 
brighter  from  the  dulness  and  hardship  against  which  it 
is  relieved.  But  as  people  acquire  the  habit,  or  at  least 
the  hope,  of  comfort  they  become  aware  that  additional 
children  mean  a  sacrifice  which  they  often  refuse  to 
make. 

These  influences  go  hand-in-hand  with  that  general  7 
tendency  to  rebel  against  trouble  which  is  involved  in  the  ( 
spirit  of  choice.  In  former  days  women  accepted  the 
bearing  of  children  and  the  accompanying  cares  and  pri- 
vations as  a  matter  of  course;  it  did  not  occur  to  them 
that  anything  else  was  possible.  Now,  being  accustomed 
to  choose  their  life,  they  demand  a  reason  why  they  should 
undergo  hardships;  and  since  the  advantages  which  are 
to  follow  are  doubtful  and  remote,  and  the  suffering  near 
and  obvious,  they  are  not  unlikely  to  refuse.     Too  com- 

359 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

monly  they  have  no  inwrought  principles  and  training 
that  dispose  them  to  submit. 

The  distraction  of  choice  grievously  increases  the  actual 
burden  and  stress  upon  women,  for  it  i?  comparatively 
easy  to  put  up  with  the  inevitable.  What  with  moral 
strain  of  this  sort  and  the  anxious  selection  among 
conflicting  methods  of  nurture  and  education  it  possibly 
costs  the  mother  of  to-day  more  psychical  energy  to 
raise  four  children  than  it  did  her  grandmother  to  raise 
eight. 

It  would  be  strange  if  children  were  not  hospitable  to 
the  modern  sentiment  that  one  will  is  as  good  as  another, 
except  as  the  other  may  be  demonstrably  wiser  in  regard 
to  the  matter  in  hand.  Willing  submission  to  authority 
as  such,  or  sense  of  the  value  of  discipline  as  a  condition 
of  the  larger  and  less  obvious  well-being  of  society,  is 
hardly  to  be  expected  from  childish  reasoning,  and  must 
come,  if  at  all,  as  the  unconscious  result  of  a  training 
which  reflects  general  sentiment  and  custom.  It  is  in- 
stitutional in  its  nature,  not  visibly  reasonable. 

But  the  child,  in  our  day,  finds  no  such  institution,  no 
general  state  of  sentiment  such  as  exists  in  Japan  and 
existed  in  our  own  past,  which  fills  the  mind  from  infancy 
with  suggestions  that  parents  are  to  be  reverenced  and 
obeyed;  nor  do  parents  ordinarily  do  much  to  instil  this 
by  training.  Probably,  so  great  is  the  power  of  general 
opinion  even  in  childhood,  they  would  hardly  succeed  if 
they  tried,  but  as  a  rule  they  do  not  seriously  try.  Being 
themselves  accustomed  to  the  view  that  authority  must 
appeal  to  the  reason  of  the  subject,  they  see  nothing  strange 

3G0 


DISORGANIZATION:  THE  FAMILY 

in  the  fact  that  their  children  treat  them  as  equals  and  de- 
mand to  know  "Why?" 

The  fond  attention  which  parents  give  to  their  children 
is  often  of  a  sort  to  overstimulate  their  self-consequence. 
This  constantly  asking  them,  What  would  you  like  ?  Shall 
we  do  this  or  that  ?  W^here  do  you  want  to  go  ?  and  so  on, 
though  amiable  on  our  part,  does  the  child  little  good. 
The  old  practice  of  keeping  children  at  a  distance,  what- 
ever its  evils,  was  more  apt  to  foster  reverence. 

Among  hand-workers,  especially  in  the  country,  the 
work  being  more  obvious  and  often  shared  by  the  whole 
family,  the  pressure  of  necessary  labor  makes  a  kind  of 
discipline  for  all,  and  the  children  are  more  likely  to  see 
that  there  are  rules  and  conditions  of  life  above  their  im- 
mediate pleasure.  Social  play,  as  we  have  seen,  may  also 
do  much  for  this  perception.  But  this  visible  control  of 
a  higher  law  has  a  decreasing  part  in  modern  life,  espe- 
cially with  the  well-to-do  classes,  whose  labors  are  seldom 
such  as  children  may  share,  or  even  understand. 

In  this,  as  in  so  many  other  respects,  we  are  approach- 
ing a  higher  kind  of  life  at  the  cost  of  incidental  demoral- 
ization. The  modern  family  at  its  best,  with  its  intimate 
sympathy  and  its  discipline  of  love,  is  of  a  higher  type 
than  the  family  of  an  older  regime.  "I  never,"  said 
Thackeray,  "saw  people  on  better  terms  with  each  other, 
more  frank,  affectionate,  and  cordial,  than  the  parents  and 
the  grown-up  young  folks  in  the  United  States.  And 
why?  Because  the  children  were  spoiled,  to  be  sure."* 
But  where  this  ideal  is  not  reached,  there  is  apt  to  be  a  some- 
what disastrous  failure  which  makes  one  regret  the  auto- 
*  Philip,  chapter  28- 
361 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

cratic  and  traditional  order.  Not  merely  is  discipline 
lacking,  but  the  affection  which  might  be  supposed  to  go 
with  indulgence  is  turned  to  indifference,  if  not  contempt. 
As  a  rule  we  love  those  we  can  look  up  to,  those  who  stand 
for  the  higher  ideal.  In  old  days  parents  shared  some- 
what in  that  divinity  with  which  tradition  hedged  the  great 
of  the  earth,  and  might  receive  a  reverence  not  dependent 
upon  their  personality;  and  even  to-day  they  are  likely 
to  be  better  loved  if  they  exact  respect — just  as  an  officer 
is  better  loved  who  enforces  discipline  and  is  not  too 
familiar  with  his  soldiers.  Human  nature  needs  some- 
thing to  look  up  to,  and  it  is  a  pity  when  parents  do  not  in 
part  supply  this  need  for  their  children. 

In  short,  the  child,  like  the  woman,  helps  to  bear  the 
often  grievous  burden  of  disorganization;  bears  it,  among 
the  well-to-do  classes,  in  an  ill-regulated  life,  in  lack  of 
reverence  and  love,  in  nervousness  and  petulance;  as 
well  as  in  premature  and  stunting  labor  among  the  poor. 

The  opening  of  new  careers  to  women  and  a  resulting 
economic  independence  approaching  that  of  men  is  an- 
other phase  of  "individualism"  that  has  its  worse  and  bet- 
ter aspects.  In  general  it  has,  through  the  fuller  self-expres- 
sion of  women,  most  beneficial  reactions  both  upon  family 
life  and  society  at  large,  but  creates  some  trouble  in  the 
way  of  domestic  reluctance  and  discontent. 

The  disposition  to  reject  marriage  altogether  may  be  sej 
aside^s  scarcely  existent.  The  marriage  rate  shows  little 
decline,  though  the  average  age  is  somewhat  advanced. 
The  wage-earning  occupations  of  women  are  mostly  of  a 
temporary  character,  and  the  great  majority  of  domestic 

362 


DISORGANIZATION:  THE  FAMILY 

servants,  shop  and  factory  girls,  clerks,  typewriters  and 
teachers  marry  sooner  or  later.  There  is  no  reason  to 
doubt  that  a  congenial  marriage  continues  to  be  the  al- 
most universal  feminine  ideal. 

A  more  real  problem,  perhaps,  is  found  in  the  excessive 
requirements,  in  the  way  of  comfort  and  refinement,  that 
young  women  are  said  to  cherish.  In  the  United  States 
their  education,  so  far  as  general  culture  is  concerned, 
outstrips  that  of  men,  something  like  three-fifths  of  our 
high  school  pupils  being  girls,  while  even  in  the  higher 
institutions  the  study  of  history,  foreign  languages  and 
English  literature  is  largely  given  over  to  women.  A  cer- 
tain  sense  of  superiority  coming  from  this  state  of  things 
probably  causes_the^  rejection  of  some  honest  clerks  or 
craftsmen  by  girls  who  can  hardly  look  for  a  better  offer; 
and  it  has  a  tendency  toward  the  cultivation  of  refinement 
at  the  expense  of  children  where  marriage  does  occur. 
It  need  hardly  be  said,  however,  that  aggressive  idealism 
on  the  part  of  women  is  in  itself  no  bad  thing,  and  that  it 
does  harm  only  where  ill-directed.  Hardly  anything,  for 
instance,  would  be  more  salutary  than  the  general  en- 
forcement by  women  of  a  higher  moral  standard  upon  the 
men  who  wish  to  marry  them. 

And  certainly  nothing  in  modern  civilization  is  more 
widely  and  subtly  beneficent  than  the  enlargement  of 
women  in  social  function.  It  means  that  a  half  of  human 
nature  is  newly  enfranchised,  instructed  and  enabled  to 
become  a  more  conscious  and  effective  factor  in  life. 
The  ideals  of  home  and  the  care  of  children,  in  spite  of 
pessimists,  are  changing  for  the  better,  and  the  work 
women  in  independent  careers  is  largely  in  the  direction 

363 


:l 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

of  much-needed  social  service — education  and  philanthropy' 
in  the  largest  sense  of  the  words.  Any  one  familiar  with 
these  movements  knows  that  much  of  the  intellectual  and 
most  of  the  emotional  force  back  of  them  is  that  of  women. 
One  may  say  that  the  maternal  instinct  has  been  set  free 
and  organized  on  a  vast  scale,  for  the  activities  in  which 
v/omen  most  excel  are  those  inspired  by  sympathy  with 
children  and  with  the  weak  or  suffering  classes. 

To  the  continental  European,  accustomed  to  a  society 
in  which  the  functions  and  conventions  of  men  and  women 
are  sharply  distinguished  and  defined  by  tradition,  it 
seems  that  Americans  break  down  a  natural  and  salutary 
differentiation,  making  women  masculine  and  men  fem- 
inine by  a  too  indiscriminate  association  and  competition. 
No  doubt  there  is  some  ground  for  distinct  standards  and 
education,  and  in  the  general  crumbling  of  traditions  and 
sway  of  a  somewhat  doctrinaire  idea  of  equality  some 
"achieved  distinctions"  of  value  may  have  been  lost  sight 
of.  Like  other  social  differentiations,  however,  this  is 
one  that  can  no  longer  be  determined  by  authority,  but 
must  work  itself  out  in  a  free  play  of  experiment.  As 
Mr.  Ellis  says,  "The  hope  of  our  future  civilization  lies 
in  the  development,  in  equal  freedom,  of  both  the  mascu- 
line and  feminine  elements  in  life."* 

Perhaps,  also,  the  masculine  element,  as  being  on  the 
whole  more  rational  and  stable,  should  be  the  main  source 
of  government,  keeping  in  order  the  emotionality  more 
commonly  dominant  in  women:  and  it  may  appear  that 
this  controlling  function  is  ill-performed  in  Ajnerica.  It 
*  Man  and  Woman.  396, 
364 


DISORGANIZATION:  THE  FAMILY 

should  be  remembered,  however,  that  with  us  the  emanci- 
pation of  women  comes  chiefly  from  male  initiative  and 
is  a  voluntary  fostering  of  das  etvig  Weibliche  out  of  love 
and  respect  for  it.  And  also  that  most  European  societies 
govern  women  by  coercive  laws  or  conventions  and,  in  the 
lower  classes,  even  by  blows.  Americans  have  almost 
wholly  foregone  these  extrinsic  aids,  aiming  at  a  higher  or 
voluntary  discipline,  and  if  American  women  are,  after  all, 
quite  as  well  guided,  on  the  whole,  as  those  of  Europe,  it 
is  no  mean  achievement. 

There  are  in  general  two  sorts  of  forces,  one  personal 
and  one  institutional,  which  hold  people  together  in  wed- 
lock. By  the  personal  I  mean  those  which  spring  more 
directly  from  natural  impulse,  and_may_be  roughly^summed 
up  as  affection  and  common  interest  in  children,.  The 
institutional  are  those  that  come  more  from  the  larger 
organization  of  society,  such  as  economic  interdependence 
of  husband  and  wife,  or  the  state  of  public  sentiment,  tra- 
dition and  law. 

As  regards  affection,  present  conditions  should  appar- 
ently be  favorable  to  the  strength  of  the  bond.  Since 
personal  choice  is  so  little  interfered  with,  and  the  whole 
matter  conducted  with  a  view  to  congeniality,  it  would 
seem  that  a  high  degree  of  congeniality  must,  on  the  whole, 
be  secured.  And,  indeed,  this  is  without  much  doubt  the 
case:  nowhere  probably,  is  there  so  large  a  proportion  of 
couples  living  together  in  love  and  confidence  as  in  those 
countries  where  marriage  is  most  free.  Even  if  serious 
friction  arises,  the  fact  that  each  has  chosen  the  other 
without  constraint  favors  a  sense  of  responsibility  for  the 

3G5 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

relation,  and  a  determination  to  make  it  succeed  that  might 
be  lacking  in  an  arranged  marriage.  We  know  that  if  we 
do  not  marry  happily  it  is  our  own  fault,  and  the  more 
character  and  self-respect  we  have  the  more  we  try  to  make 
the  best  of  our  venture.  There  can  hardly  be  a  general 
feeling  that  marriage  is  one  thing  and  love  another,  such 
as  may  prevail  under  the  rule  of  convenance. 

Yet  it  is  not  inconsistent  to  say  that  this  aim  at  love  in- 
creases divorce.  The  theory  being  that  the  contracting 
'parties  are  to  be  made  happy,  then,  if  they  are  not,  it 
seems  to  follow  that  the  relation  is  a  failure  and  should 
cease:  the  brighter  the  ideal  the  darker  the  fact  by  con- 
trast. Where  interest  and  custom  rule  marriage  those 
who  enter  into  it  may  not  expect  congeniality,  or,  if  they 
do,  they  feel  that  it  is  secondary  and  do  not  dream  of 
divorce  because  it  is  not  achieved.  The  woman  marries 
because  her  parents  tell  her  to,  because  marriage  is  her 
career,  and  because  she  desires  a  wedding  and  to  be  mis- 
tress of  a  household;  the  man  because  he  wants  a  house- 
hold and  children  and  is  not  indifferent  to  the  dowry. 
These  tangible  aims,  of  which  one  can  be  fairly  secure  be- 
forehand, give  stability  where  love  proves  wanting. 

And  while  freedom  in  well-ordered  minds  tends  toward 
responsibility  and  the  endeavor  to  make  the  best  of  a 
chosen  course,  in  the  ill-ordered  it  is  likely  to  become 
an  impulsiveness  which  is  displayed  equally  in  contract- 
ing and  in  breaking  off  marriage  without  good  cause.  The 
conditions  of  our  time  give  an  easy  rein  to  undisciplined 
wills,  and  one  index  of  their  activity  is  the  divorce  rate. 
Bad  training  in  childhood  is  a  large  factor  in  this,  neglected 
or  spoiled  children  making  bad  husbands  or  wives,  and 

366 


DISORGANIZATION:  THE  FAMILY 

probably  furnishing  the  greater  number  of  the  divorced. 
Common  observation  seems  to  show  that  the  latter  are 
seldom  people  of  thoroughly  wholesome  antecedents. 

It  may  not  be  amiss  to  add  that  personal  affection  is  at 
the  best  an  inadequate  foundation  for  marriage.  To 
expect  that  one  person  should  make  another  happy  or 
good  is  requiring  too  much  of  human  nature.  Both 
parties  ought  to  be  subject  to  some  higher  idea,  in  rever- 
ence for  w^hich  they  may  rise  above  their  own  imperfec- 
tion: there  ought  to  be  something  in  the  way  of  religion 
in  the  case.  A  remark  which  Goethe  made  of  poetry 
might  well  be  applied  to  personal  love:  "It  is  a  very  good 
companion  of  life,  but  in  no  way  competent  to  guide  it'*;* 
and  because  people  have  no  higher  thought  to  shelter  them 
in  disappointment  is  frequently  the  reason  that  marriage 
proves  a  failure. 

As  regards  institutional  bonds  there  is  of  course  a  great 
relaxation. 

Thus  economic  interdependence  declines  with  the  ad- 
vance of  specialization.  The  home  industries  are  mostly 
gone,  and  every  year  more  things  are  bought  that  used  to  be 
made  in  the  house.  Little  is  left  but  cooking,  and  that, 
either  as  a  task  of  the  wife  or  in  the  shape  of  the  Domestic 
Service  Question,  is  so  troublesome  that  many  are  eager  to 
see  it  follow  the  rest.  At  one  time  marriage  was,  for 
women,  about  the  only  way  to  a  respectable  maintenance, 
while  to  men  a  good  housewife  was  equally  an  economic 
necessity.     Now  this  is  true  only  of  th i  farming  population, 

*  Die  Muse  das  Leben  zwar  gern  begleitet,  aber  es  keineswegs 
«u  leiten  versteht. 

367 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

and  less  true  of  them  than  it  used  to  be :  in  the  towns  the 
economic  considerations  are  mostly  opposed  to  married  life. 

Besides  makirg  husband  and  wife  less  necessary  to 
each  other,  these  changes  tend  to  make  married  women 
restless.  Nothing  works  more  for  sanity  and  content- 
ment than  a  reasonable  amount  of  necessary  and  absorb- 
ing labor;  disciplining  the  mind  and  giving  one  a  sense 
of  being  of  use  in  the  world.  It  seems  a  paradox  to  say 
that  idleness  is  exhausting,  but  there  is  much  truth  in  it, 
especially  in  the  case  of  sensitive  ^ind  eager  spirits.  A 
regular  and  necessary  task  rests  the  will  by  giving  it  as- 
surance, while  the  absence  of  such  a  task  wearies  it  by 
uncertainty  and  futile  choice.  Just  as  a  person  who  fol- 
lows a  trail  throusfh  the  woods  will  go  further  with  less 
exertion  than  one  who  is  finding  his  way,  so  we  all  need 
a  foundation  of  routine,  and  the  lack  of  this  among 
women  of  the  richer  classes  is  a  chief  cause  of  the  restless, 
exacting,  often  hysterical,  spirit,  harassing  to  its  owner 
and  every  one  else,  which  tends  toward  discontent,  in- 
discretion and  divorce. 

The  old  traditional  subordination  on  the  part  of  the 
wife  had  its  uses,  like  other  decaying  structures  of  the 
past;  and  however  distasteful  to  modern  ideas  of  freedom, 
was  a  factor  in  holding  the  family  together.  For,  after  all, 
no  social  organization  can  be  expected  to  subsist  without 
some  regular  system  of  government.  We  say  that  the 
modern  family  is  a  democracy;  and  this  sounds  very  well; 
but  anarchy  is  sometimes  a  more  correct  description. 
A  well-ordered  democracy  has  a  constitution  and  laws, 
prescribing  the  rights  and  duties  of  the  various  members 
of  the  state,  and  providing  a  method  of  determining  con- 

3G8 


DISORGANIZATION:  THE  FAMILY 

troversies:  the  family,  except  as  we  recognize  within 
reasonable  limits  the  authority  of  the  husband  and  father, 
has  nothing  of  the  sort.  So  long  as  the  members  are  one 
in  mind  and  feeling  there  is  an  unconscious  harmony 
which  has  nothing  to  do  with  authority;  but  with  even  slight 
divergence  comes  the  need  of  definite  control.  What 
would  happen  on  shipboard  if  the  captain  had  to  govern  by 
mere  personal  ascendency,  without  the  backing  of  mari- 
time law  and  custom  ?  Evidently  there  would  be  muti- 
nies, as  among  pirate  crews,  which  only  an  uncommonly 
strong  man  could  quell;  and  the  family  is  often  in  a  sim- 
ilar condition.* 

The  relaxation  of  moral  sentiment  regarding  marriage 
by  migrations  and  other  sorts  of  displacement  is  easily 
traced  in  statistics,  which  show  that  divorce  is  more  fre- 
quent in  new  countries,  in  cities — peopled  by  migration 
— and  in  the  industrial  and  commercial  classes  most  af- 
fected by  economic  change.  To  have  an  effective  public 
opinion  holding  people  to  their  duty  it  is  important  that 
men  should  live  long  in  one  place  and  in  one  group,  in- 
heriting traditional  ideas  and  enforcing  them  upon  one 

*  That  the  increase  of  divorces  is  due  chiefly  to  the  initiative  of 
the  wife  is  seen  in  the  fact  that  as  they  become  more  nmner- 
ous  an  increasing  proportion  is  granted  at  the  instance  of  the  woman. 
Under  the  old  regime  the  divorcing  of  a  husband  was  almost  un- 
known, the  first  case  in  England  occurring  in  1801.  (See  the  essay 
on  Marriage  and  Divorce  in  Mr.  Bryce's  Studies  in  History  and 
Jurisprudence.)  In  the  United  States  a  great  preponderance  are 
now  granted  to  wives,  and  the  greater  the  total  rate  the  greater 
this  preponderance.  In  those  states  where  the  rate  is  highest  the 
proportion  is  from  two-thirds  to  three-fourths.  It  is  not  far  wrong 
to  say  that  the  old  idea  of  divorce  was  to  rid  the  husband  of  an  un- 
faithful wife,  the  new  is  to  rid  the  wife  of  an  uncongenial  or  trouble- 
some husband. 

369 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

another.  All  breaking  up  of  old  associations  involves 
an  "individualism"  which  is  nowhere  more  active  than 
in  family  relations. 

The  same  principles  go  to  explain  diminished  control 
by  the  law  and  the  church.  Thus  we  notice  that  the 
states  of  the  American  Union,  having  made  their  marriage 
laws  in  comparative  independence  of  the  English  tradition 
and  in  harmony  with  a  relaxing  public  sentiment,  have 
much  divorce;  while  in  Canada  the  restraining  hand  of 
that  tradition  has  kept  the  law  conservative  and  made 
divorce  difficult  and  rare.  The  surprising  contrast  in  this 
regard  between  the  two  sides  of  the  Detroit  or  St.  Lawrence 
rivers  is  only  partly  explained  by  the  different  social  traits 
of  the  people. 

Christian  teaching  is  the  chief  source  of  the  ideal  of 
marriage  as  a  sacred  and  almost  indissoluble  bond,  and 
church  organization  has  been  the  main  agent  in  enforcing 
this  ideal.  The  Roman  Catholic  church  has  never  ad- 
mitted the  possibility  of  absolute  divorce,  and  to  her  au- 
thority, chiefly,  is  due  its  absence  in  Spain  and  Italy; 
while  in  England  the  Established  Church,  not  much  be- 
hind Rome  in  strictness,  has  been  perhaps  the  chief  cause 
of  conservatism  in  English  law  and  sentiment.  And  the 
other  Protestant  churches,  though  more  liberal,  are  con- 
servative in  comparison  with  the  drift  of  popular  feeling. 
So  the  fact,  needless  to  discuss  in  this  connection,  that 
the  disciplinary  authority  of  the  church  has  declined, 
makes  directly  for  the  increase  of  divorce. 

The  relaxation  of  the  family  is  due,  then,  to  changes 
progressive  on  the  whole,  but  involving  much  incidental 
'  370 


DISORGANIZATION:  THE  FAMILY 

demoralization;  being  in  general  those  arising  from  a  some- 
what rapid  Heray  of  old  trflditions  and  disciplines  and  a 
consequent  dependence  upon  human  impulse  and  reason. 

The  evil  involved  is  largely  old  evil  in  a  new  form ;  it  is 
not  so  much  that  new  troubles  have  arisen  between  hus- 
band and  wife  as  that  a  new  remedy  is  sought  for  old  ones. 
They  quarreled  and  marriage  vows  were  broken  quite  as 
much  in  former  times  as  now,  as  much  in  England  to- 
day as  in  America:  the  main  difference  is  in  the  outcome. 

Moreover,  the  matter  has  its  brighter  side;  for  divorce^ 
though  full  of  evils,  is  associated  with  a  beneficent  rise  in 
the  standing  oi'  women,  of  which  it  is  to  a  certain  degree 
the  cauje^  The  fact  that  law  and  opinion  now  permit 
women  to  revolt  against  the  abuse  of  marital  power  oper- 
ates widely  and  subtly  to  increase  their  self-respect  and 
the  respect  of  others  for  them,  and  like  the  right  of  work- 
men to  strike,  does  most  of  its  good  without  overt  exercise^ 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

DISORGANIZATION:  THE  CHURCH 

The  Psychological  View  of  Religion — The  Need  of  Sociai 
Structure — Creeds — Why  Symbols  Tend  to  Become, 
Formal — Traits  of  a  Good  System  of  Symbols — Contempo- 
rary Need  of  Religion — Newer  Tendencies  in  the  Church. 

In  religion,  too,  our  day  is  one  of  confusion  in  institu- 
tions and  falling  back  upon  human  nature.  The  most 
notable  books  of  the  day  in  this  field  are,  first  of  all, 
studies  in  religious  psychology.  Perceiving  that  the  ques- 
tion has  come  to  be  one  of  the  very  being  and  function 
of  religion,  they  ignore  the  discussion  of  particular  doc- 
trines, polities  or  sacraments,  and  seek  a  foundation  in  the 
nature  of  the  human  mind. 

I  do  not  wish  to  follow  these  researches  in  detail :  their 
general  outcome  is  reassuring.  They  seem  to  show  that 
religion  is  a  need  of  human  nature,  centring,  perhaps, 
in  the  craving  to  make  life  seem  rational  and  good.  As 
thought  it  is  belief  regarding  the  power  underlying  life  and 
our  relation  to  it;  our  conceptions  of  God  and  of  other 
divine  agents  serving  as  symbols — changing  like  other 
symbols  with  the  general  state  of  thought — of  this  hidden 
reality.  As  feeling  it  is  a  various  body  of  passion  and 
sentiment  associated  with  this  belief;  such  as  the  sense  of 
sin  and  of  reconciliation;    dread,  awe,  reverence,  love  and 

372 


DISORGANIZATION:  THE  CHURCH 

faith.     And  religious  action  is  such  as  expresses  in  one 
way  or  another,  this  sort  of  thought  and  feeHng, 

Like  all  our  higher  life,  religion  lives  only  by  communi- 
cation and  influence.  Its  sentiments  are  planted  in  in- 
stinct, but  the  soil  in  which  they  grow  is  some  sort  of 
fostering  community  life.  Higher  thought — call  it  in- 
tellectual, spiritual,  or  what  you  will — does  not  come  to 
us  by  any  short  and  easy  road,  its  nature  being  to  require 
preparation  and  outlay,  to  be  the  difhcult  and  culminat- 
ing product  of  human  growth.  And  this  is  quite  as  much 
a  growth  of  the  social  order  as  of  individuals,  for  the  in- 
dividual cut  off  from  that  scaffolding  of  suggestion  that 
the  aspiration  of  the  race  has  gradually  prepared  for  him 
is  sure  to  be  lawless  and  sensual :  his  spiritual  impulse  can 
hardly  be  more  than  a  futile  unrest,  just  as  the  untaught 
impulse  of  speech  in  a  deaf  person  produces  only  inarticu- 
late cries.  Much  has  been  said  of  natural  religion;  but  if 
this  means  a  religion  achieved  de  novo  by  the  individual 
mind,  there  is  no  such  thing,  all  religion  and  religious  senti- 
ment being  m.ore  or  less  distinctly  traditional. 

We  find,  then,  that  the  religious  life  always  rests  upon 
a  somewhat  elaborate  social  structure — not  necessarily 
a  church,  but  something  which  does  in  fact  what  the  church 
aims  to  do.  The  higher  sentiments  now  possible  to  us  are 
subtly  evoked  and  nourished  by  language,  music,  ritual 
and  other  time-wrought  symbols.  And  even  more  ob- 
viously are  ideas — of  God  and  of  the  larger  being,  of  re- 
ligious observ^ance,  government  and  duty — matters  of 
communal  and  secular  growth. 

The  root  problem  of  the  church — as,  in  a  sense,  of  all 

373 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

organization — is  to  get  the  use  of  the  symbol  without  the 
abuse.  We  cannot  hold  our  minds  to  the  higher  life 
without  a  form  of  thought;  and  forms  of  thought  come  by 
traditions  and  usages  which  are  apt  to  enchain  the  spirit. 
"Woe  unto  thee  thou  stream  of  human  custom'*;  cries 
St.  Augustine,  "Who  shall  stay  thy  course?  How  long 
shall  it  be  before  thou  art  dried  up  ?  How  long  wilt  thou 
carry  down  the  sons  of  Eve  into  that  huge  and  formidable 
ocean,  which  even  those  who  are  embarked  on  the  Tree 
can  scarce  pass  over?"* 

The  iconoclastic  fervor  against  formalism  that  usefully 
breaks  out  from  time  to  time  should  not  make  us  imagine 
that  religion  can  dispense  with  institutions.  There  is  in 
religious  thought  at  present  much  of  a  kind  of  anarchism 
which,  in  the  justifiable  revolt  against  the  pretensions  of 
authority,  is  inclined  to  overlook  the  importance  of  tra- 
dition and  structure.  Perhaps  we  may  cite  Emerson  as 
an  anarchist  of  this  sort;  he  saw  the  necessity  of  institu- 
tions, but  was  inclined  by  temperament  and  experience  to 
distrust  them,  and  to  dwell  almost  wholly  upon  freedom. 

Is  it  not  the  fact,  however,  that  the  progress  of  religion 
has  been  less  in  the  perception  of  new  truth  than  in  bring- 
ing it  home  to  the  many  by  organization?  There  is 
perhaps  little  in  religious  thought  that  was  not  adequately 
expressed  by  occasional  thinkers  millenniums  ago;  the 
gain  has  been  in  working  this  thought  into  the  corporate 
life.  The  great  religions — Buddhism,  Judaism,  Christi- 
anity, Mohammedanism — are  nothing  if  not  systems; 
that  is  to  say,  although  based  on  primary  needs  of  human 
nature,  their  very  being  as  widespread  religions  consist^ 
*  Confessions,  book  i,  chap.  16. 


DISORGANIZATION:  THE  CHURCH 

in  a  social  structure,  adapted  to  the  changing  state  of 
society,  through  which  these  needs  are  met  and  fostered. 
Thus  the  appeal  of  Christianity  to  the  human  mind  may 
be  said  to  have  rested,  in  all  periods,  partly  on  the  sym- 
bolic power  of  a  personality — so  idealized  and  interpreted 
as  to  be  in  effect  a  system  as  well  as  a  man — and  partly 
on  a  changing  but  always  elaborate  structure  of  doctrines, 
ritual,  polity,  preaching  and  the  like.  Take  away  these 
symbols  and  there  is  nothing  distinctive  left.  And  if  the 
whole  is  to  go  on,  the  system  of  symbols,  again  renewed, 
must  go  on,  too.  No  more  in  religion  than  ii  any  other 
phase  of  life  can  we  have  an  inside  without  an  outside, 
essence  without  form. 

The  existing  creeds,  formulated  in  a  previous  state  of 
thought,  have  lost  that  relative  truth  they  once  had  and 
are  now,  for  most  of  us,  not  creeds  at  all,  since  they  are 
incredible;  but  creeds  of  some  sort  we  must  have.  A 
creed  may,  perhaps,  be  defined  as  a  settled  way  of  think- 
ing about  matters  which  are  beyond  the  reach  of  positive 
knowledge,  but  which  the  mind  must  and  will  think  of  in 
some  way — notably,  of  course,  about  the  larger  life  and 
our  relation  to  it.  For  the  majority,  who  are  not  meta- 
physicians, it  is  mere  waste  and  distraction  to  struggle 
unaided  with  these  problems;  we  need  a  chart  in  this  sea, 
a  practicable  form  of  thought  to  live  by.  That  compe- 
tent men  should  devise  such  forms  of  thought,  consistent 
with  the  state  of  knowledge,  and  that  other  symbols  should 
grow  up  about  them,  is  as  natural  and  useful  as  any  other 
kind  of  invention.  We  need  to  believe,  and  we  shall  be- 
lieve what  we  can.     John  Addington  Symonds  declared 

375 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

that  ''health  of  soul  results  from  possessing  a  creed,"  and 
his  own  sufferings  in  trying  to  make  one  out  of  the  scat- 
tered materials  of  his  time  are  typical  of  those  of  a  great 
number  of  sensitive  minds,  many  of  whom  have  been 
harassed  into  despair  and  degradation.*  Without  some 
regular  and  common  service  of  the  ideal,  something  in 
the  way  of  prayer  and  worship,  ^^essimism  and  selfishness 
are  almost  sure  to  encroach  upon  us. 

Those  who  teach  truth  in  its  mere  abstractness  can  never 
take  much  hold  of  the  general  mind,  and  success  awaits  a 
teaching  which  is  intellectually  sound  (that  is,  consistent  with 
the  clearer  thought  of  the  day),  and  at  the  same  time  able,  by 
a  wealth  of  fit  symbols,  to  make  itself  at  home  in  all  sorts 
of  plain  minds.  And  it  is  just  this  that  is  apt  to  be  destruc- 
tively wanting  in  a  time  of  intellectual  and  social  change. 

Why  is  it  that  the  symbol  encroaches  and  persists  be- 
yond its  function?  Evidently  just  because  it  is  external, 
capable  of  imitation  and  repetition  without  fresh  thought 
and  life,  so  that  all  that  is  inert  and  mechanical  clings  to  it. 
All  dull  and  sensual  persons,  all  dull  and  sensual  moods 
in  any  person,  see  the  form  and  not  the  substance.  The 
spirit,  the  idea,  the  sentiment,  is  plainly  enough  the  real- 
ity when  one  is  awake  to  see  it,  but  how  easily  we  lose  our 
hold  upon  it  and  come  to  think  that  the  real  is  the  tangible. 
The  symbol  is  always  at  command :  we  can  always  attend 
church,  go  to  mass,  recite  prayers,  contribute  money, 
and  the  like;  but  kindness,  hope,  reverence,  humility, 
courage,  have  no  string  attached  to  them;  they  come  and 
go  as  the  spirit  moves;  there  is  no  insurance  on  them. 
*  See  his  life  by  H.  F.  Brown,  passim. 

376 


DISORGANIZATION:  THE  CHURCH 

Just  as  in  the  schools  we  teach  facts  and  formulas  rather 
than  meanings,  because  the  former  can  be  received  by  ail 
and  readily  tested,  so  religion  becomes  external  in  seeking 
to  become  universal. 

It  is  perhaps  hardly  necessary  to  recall  the  application 
of  this  to  Christianity.  Jesus  himself  had  no  system:  he 
felt  and  taught  the  human  sentiments  that  underly  re- 
ligion and  the  conduct  that  expresses  them.  The  Sermon 
on  the  Mount  appears  paradoxical  only  to  sluggish,  sen- 
sual, formal  states  of  mind  and  the  institutions  that  em- 
body them.  In  our  times  of  clearer  insight  it  is  good  sense 
and  good  psychology,  expressing  that  enlargement  of 
the  individual  to  embrace  the  life  of  others  which  takes 
place  at  such  times.  This  natural  Christianity,  however, 
is  insecure  in  the  best  people,  and  most  of  us  have  only  a 
fleeting  experience  of  it;  so  the  teachers  who  wished  to 
make  a  popular  system,  valid  for  all  sorts  of  persons  and 
moods,  were  led  to  vulgarize  it  by  grounding  it  on  miracles 
and  mystic  authority  and  enforcing  it  by  sensual  rewards 
and  punishments. 

The  perennial  truth  of  what  Christ  taught  comes  pre- 
cisely from  the  fact  that  it  was  not  a  system,  but  an  intui- 
tion and  expression  of  higher  sentiments  the  need  of  which 
is  a  central  and  enduring  element  in  our  best  experience. 
It  is  this  that  has  made  it  possible,  in  every  age,  to  go  back 
to  his  life  and  words  and  find  them  still  alive  and  potent, 
fit  to  vitalize  renewed  systems.  The  system  makers  did 
well,  too,  but  their  work  was  transient. 

A  good  system  of  symbols  is  one  which,  on  the  whole, 
stands  to  the  group  or  to  the  individual  for  a  higher  life: 

377 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

merit  in  this  matter  being  relative  to  the  particular  state  or 
mind  that  the  symbol  is  to  serve.     It  is  quite  true  that — 

"Each  age  must  worship  its  own  thought  of  God, 
More  or  less  earthy,  clarifying  still 
With  subsidence  continuous  of  the  dregs."* 

Crude  men  musyiave  j^md£,CTilbQls — eTen  "  rod  or  candy 
for  child-minded  men"t — but  these  shoiild_be_educational, 
leading  up  from  lower  forms  of  thought  to  higher.  A  sys- 
tem that  keeps  men  in  sensualism  when  they  are  capable 
of  rising  above  it,  or  in  dogmatism  when  they  are  ready  to 
think,  is  as  bad  as  one  that  does  not  reach  their  minds  at 
all. 

At  the  present  time  all  finality  in  religious  formulas  is 
discredited  philosophically  by  the  idea  of  evolution  and  of 
the  consequent  relativity  of  all  higher  truth,  while,  practi- 
cally, free  discussion  has  so  accustomed  people  to  conflict- 
ing views  that  the  exclusive  and  intolerant  advocacy  of 
dogma  is  scarcely  possible  to  the  intelligent.  It  is  true,  of 
course,  that  philosophical  breadth  and  free  discussion 
have  flourished  before,  only  to  be  swept  under  by  the  forces 
making  for  authority;  but  they  were  never  so  rooted  in 
general  conditions — of  communication  and  personal 
freedom — as  they  are  now.  It  seems  fairly  certain  that 
the  formulas  of  religion  will  henceforward  be  held  with 
at  least  a  subconsciousness  of  their  provisional  char- 
acter. 

The  creeds  of  the  future  are  likely,  also,  to  be  simple,  i^ 
In  all  institutions  there  is  nowadays  a  tendency  to  exchange 
formulas  for  principles,   as  being  more  flexible  and  so 

*  J.  R.  Lowell,  The  Cathedral.  t  ^^^^ 

378 


DISORGANIZATION:  THE  CHURCH 

more  enduring.  The  nearer  you  can  get  to  universal 
human  nature  without  abandoning  concreteness  the  better. 
There  is  coming  to  be  a  clearer  distinction  of  functions 
between  metaphysics  and  worship,  which  may  enable  each 
to  be  enjoyed  to  the  utmost  without  being  unnecessarily 
mixed  with  the  other. 

The  less  intellectual  a  religious  symbol  is  the  better, 
because  it  less  confines  the  mind.  Personality  is  the  best 
symbol  of  all;  and  after  that  music,  art,  poetry,  festivity 
and  ceremony  are  more  enduring  and  less  perilous  sym- 
bols than  formulas  of  belief.  Sentiments  change  like 
ideas,  but  not  so  much  and  not  so  evidently;  and  the  es- 
sential exercises  of  religion  for  the  mass  of  men  are  those 
which  awaken  higher  sentiment,  especially  those  good 
works,  in  which,  chiefly,  the  founder  of  Christianity  and 
his  real  followers  have  expressed  their  religious  impulse. 
These  also  are  symbols,  and  the  most  potent  and  least 
illusive  of  all. 

It  is  indeed  a  general  truth  that  sentiment  is  nearer  to 
the  core  of  life  than  definable  thought.  As  the  rim  of  a 
wheel  whirls  about  its  centre,  so  ideas  and  institutions 
whirl  about  the  pivotal  sentiments  of  human  nature.  To 
define  a  thing  is  to  institutionize  it,  to  draw  it  forth  from 
the  pregnant  obscurity  of  the  soul  and  show  just  how  it 
appears  in  the  transient  color  of  our  particular  way  of 
thinking.     Definitions  are,  in  their  nature,  short-lived. 

We  need  religion,  probably,  as  much  as  any  age  can  have 
needed  it.  The  prevalent  confusion,  *'the  tumult  of  the 
time  disconsolate,"  is  felt  in  every  mind  not  wholly  inert 
as  a  greater  or  less  distraction  of  thought,  feeling  and  will; 

3/y 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

and  we  need  to  be  taught  how  to  live  with  joy  and  calm 
in  the  presence  of  inevitable  perplexities.  A  certain  nat-  , 
ural  phlegm  is  a  great  advantage  in  these  days,  and  better ^^ 
still,  if  we  could  get  it,  would  be  religious  assurance^ 
Never  was  it  more  urgent  or  more  difficult  to  justify  the' 
ways  of  Godjtojnen.  Our  materiaTlDetterment  is  a  great 
thing,  and  our  comparative  freedom  a  greater,  but  these 
rather  increase  than  diminish  the  need__of_a  higher  dis° 
cipline  in  tHelmmd  that  is  to  use  them  profitably:  the 
more  opportunities  the  more  problems.  Social  better- 
ment is  like  the  advance  of  science  in  that  each  achieve- 
ment opens  up  new  requirements.  There  is  no  prospect 
that  the  world  will  ever  satisfy  us,  and  the  structure  of 
life  is  forever  incomplete  without  something  to  satisfy 
the  need  of  the  spirit  for  ideas  and  sentiments  that  tran- 
scend and  reconcile  all  particular  aims  whatsoever. 
Mediaeval  religion  is  too  unworldly,  no  doubt,  for  our  use, 
but  all  real  religion  has  its  unworldly  side,  and  Thomas 
a  Kempis  and  the  rest  were  right  in  holding  that  no  sort 
of  tangible  achievement  can  long  assuage  the  human  soul. 
Still  more  evident  is  the  need  of  religion  in  the  form  of 
"social  salvation,"  of  the  moral  awakening  and  leadership 
of  the  public  mind.  Society  is  in  want  of  this,  and  the 
agency  that  supplies  the  want  will  have  the  power  that  goes 
with  function — if  not  the  church,  then  some  secular  and 
perhaps  hostile  agency,  like  socialism,  which  is  already 
a  rival  to  the  church  for  the  allegiance  of  the  religious 
SDirit. 

X 

Perhaps,  also,  there  was  never  an  age  in  which  there 
was  more  vital,  hopeful  religious  aspiration  and  endeavor 

380 


DISORGANIZATION:  THE  CHURCH 

than  the  present — notwithstanding  that  so  many  are  astray. 
It  is,  of  course,  a  great  advantage  of  the  decline  of  forms 
that  what  survives  is  the  more  Ukely  to  be  real.  The 
church  is  being  transformed  in  the  persons  of  its  younger 
and  more  adaptive  members,  and  the  outcome  can  be  noth- 
ing else  than  a  gradual  readjustment  of  the  tradition  to 
the  real  spiritual  needs  of  the  time.  It  is  notable  that  the 
severest  critics  of  the  institution  are  reformers  within  its 
own  body,  and  their  zeal  overlooks  nothing  in  the  way  of 
apathy  or  decadence. 

As  a  matter  of  historical  comparison  the  irreligion  of 
our  time  is  often  exaggerated.  Any  reader  of  history  may 
perceive  that  formalism,  materialism  and  infidelity  have 
flourished  in  all  epochs,  and  as  regards  America  we  are 
assured  by  Mr.  Bryce  that  Christianity  influences  con- 
duct more  here  than  in  any  other  modern  country,  and 
far  more  than  in  the  so-called  ages  of  faith.*  In  fact  it 
is  just  because  this  age  is  Christian  in  its  aspirations  that 
we  hear  so  much  of  the  inadequacy  of  the  church.  People 
are  taking  religion  seriously  and  demanding  true  function 
in  its  instruments. 

The  church  is  possibly  moving  toward  a  differentiated 
unity,  in  which  the  common  element  will  be  mainly  senti- 
mcnt — such  sentiments  as  justice,  kindness,  liberty  and 
service.  These  are  sufficient  for  good-will  and  coopera- 
tion, and  leave  room  for  all  the  differentiation  of  ideas  and 
methods  that  the  diversity  of  life  requires. 

With  whatever  faults  the  church  is  one  of  the  great 
achievements  of  civilization.  Like  the  body  of  science 
or  our  system  of  transportation  and  manufacture,  it  is 
*  The  American  Commonwealth,  chap.  80. 

38; 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

the  cumulative  outcome  of  human  invention  and  endeavor, 
and  is  probably  in  no  more  danger  of  perishing  than  these 
are.  If  certain  parts  of  it  break  up  we  shall  no  doubt 
find  that  their  sound  materials  are  incorporated  into  new 
structures. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

DISORGANIZATION:  OTHER  TRADITIONS 

Disorder  in  the  Economic  System — In  Education — In  Higher 
Culture In  the  Fine  Arts. 

This  same  idea,  of  confusion  and  inefificiency  in  social 
functions  arising  from  the  breaking  up  of  old  structures, 
might  find  illustration  in  almost  any  phase  of  life  which 
one  might  choose  to  investigate.  The  economic  system, 
for  example,  is  in  a  state  somewhat  analogous  to  that  of 
the  family  and  the  church,  and  indeed  the  ''industrial 
revolution '*  is  the  chief  seat  of  those  phases  of  decay  and 
reconstruction  which  most  affect  the  daily  life  of  the  people. 

Location  itself — to  begin  with  man's  attachment  to  the 
soil — has  been  so  widely  disturbed  that  possibly  a  major- 
ity of  the  people  of  the  civilized  world  are  of  recent  migra- 
tory origin;  they  themselves  or  their  parents  having 
moved  from  one  land  to  another  or  from  country  to  city. 
With  this  goes  a  severing  of  traditions  and  a  mixture  of 
ideas  and  races. 

Still  more  subversive,  perhaps,  is  the  change  in  occu- 
pations, which  is  practically  universal,  so  that  scarcely 
anywhere  will  you  find  people  doing  the  things  which 
their  grandparents  did.  The  quiet  transmission  of  handi- 
crafts in  families  and  neighborhoods,  never  much  in- 
terrupted before,  is  now  cut  off,  and  the  young  are  driven 
to  look  for  new  trades.    Nor  is  this  merely  one  change,  to 

3S3 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

which  the  world  may  adapt  itself  once  for  all,  but  a  series, 
a  slide,  to  which  there  is  no  apparent  term.  Seldom  is 
the  skill  learned  in  youth  available  in  age,  and  thousands 
of  men  have  seen  one  trade  after  another  knocked  out  of 
their  hands  by  the  unforeseen  movement  of  invention. 
Even  the  agriculturist,  heretofore  the  symbol  for  tradi- 
tionalism, has  had  to  supple  his  mind  to  new  devices. 

I  need  not  point  out  in  detail  how  the  old  legal  and  ethical 
relations — the  whole  social  structure  indeed — of  industry 
have  mostly  broken  down;  how  the  craftsman  has  lost 
control  of  his  tools  and  is  struggling  to  regain  it  through 
associations;  how  vast  and  novel  forms  of  combination 
have  appeared;  how  men  of  all  classes  are  demoralized 
by  the  lack  of  standards  of  economic  justice;  these  are 
familiar  matters  which  I  mention  only  to  show  their  rela- 
tion to  the  principle  under  discussion. 

In  general,  modern  industry,  progressing  chiefly  in  a 
mechanical  sense,  has  attained  a  marvellous  organization 
in  that  sense;  while  the  social  and  moral  side  of  it  remains 
in  confusion.  We  have  a  promising  plant  but  have  not 
yet  learned  how  to  make  it  turn  out  the  desired  product  of 
righteousness  and  happiness. 

Wherever  there  is  power  which  has  outstripped  the 
7  growth  of  moral  and  legal  standards  there  is  sure  to  be 
5  some  kind  of  anarchy;  and  so  it  is  with  our  commerce 
i  and  finance.  On  these  seas  piracy  flourishes  alongside  of 
<  honest  trade;  and,  indeed,  as  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
^  many  merchants  practise  both  of  these  occupations.  And 
the  riches  thus  gained  often  go  to  corrupt  the  state. 

In  the  inferior  strata  of  the  commercial  order  we  find 
that  human  nature  has  been  hustled  and  trodden  under 

384 


DISORGANIZATION:  OTHER  TRADITIONS 

foot:  "Things  are  in  the  saddle  and  ride  mankind."  The 
hand-worker,  the  clerk  and  the  small  tradesman,  gener- 
ally insecure  in  the  tenure  of  their  occupations  and  homes, 
are  anxious  and  restless,  while  many  classes  suffer  special 
and  grievous  wrongs,  such  as  exhaustion  and  premature 
old  age,  due  to  the  nervous  strain  of  certain  kinds  of  work, 
death  and  mutilation  from  machinery,  life  in  squalid 
tenements,  and  the  debasement  of  children  by  bad  sur- 
roundings and  premature  work. 

Although  the  individual,  in  a  merely  mechanical  sense, 
is  part  of  a  wider  whole  than  ever  before,  he  has  often  lost 
that  conscious  membership  in  the  whole  upon  which  his 
human  breadth  depends:  unless  the  larger  life  is  a  moral 
life,  he  gains  nothing  in  this  regard,  and  may  lose.  When 
children  saw  the  grain  growing  in  the  field,  watched  the 
reaping  and  threshing  and  grinding  of  it,  and  then  helped 
their  mother  to  make  it  into  bread,  their  minds  had  a  vital 
membership  in  the  economic  process;  but  now  that  this 
process,  by  its  very  enlargement,  has  become  invisible, 
most  persons  have  lost  the  sense  of  it.*  And  this  is  a  type 
of  modern  industry  at  large:  the  worlonan,  the  man  of 
business,  the  farmer  and  the  lawyer  are  contributors  to  the 
whole,  but  being  morally  isolated  by  the  very  magnitude 
of  the  system,  the  whole  does  not  commonly  live  in  their 
thought. 

Is  it  not  a  universal  experience  that  we  cannot  do  any- 
thing with  spirit  or  satisfaction  unless  we  know  what  it  is 
for  ?  No  one  who  remembers  the  tasks  of  childhood  will 
doubt  this;  and  it  is  still  my  observation  that  so  soon  as 
I  lose  a  sense  of  the  bearing  of  what  I  am  doing  upon  gen- 
*  This  illustration  is  used  by  Miss  Jane  Addams, 
385 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

eral  aims  and  the  common  life,  I  get  stale  and  discouraged 
and  need  a  fresh  view.  Yet  a  great  part  not  only  of  hand 
labor  but  of  professional  work  and  business  is  of  this  char- 
acter. The  world  has  become  so  complicated  that  we 
know  not  what  we  do,  and  thus  suffer  not  only  in  our  happi- 
ness but  in  our  moral  steadfastness  and  religious  faith. 
There  is  no  remedy  short  of  making  life  a  moral  and  spirit- 
ual as  well  as  a  mechanical  whole. 

Education  is  another  matter  that  might  be  discussed 
at  much  length  from  this  point  of  view.  That  radical 
changes  are  taking  place  in  it  is  hardly  more  obvious 
than  that  these  changes  are  not  altogether  beneficent. 
We  may  say  of  this  department  as  of  others  that  there  is  a 
spirit  of  freedom  and  vigor  abroad,  but  that  its  immediate 
results  are  somewhat  anarchical. 

The  underl}dng  reason  for  the  special  growth  of  educa- 
tional institutions  in  our  time  is  the  free  and  conscious 
character  of  our  system,  which  demands  a  corresponding 
individual  to  work  it.  Thus  democracy  requires  literacy, 
that  the  voter  may  learn  what  he  is  voting  about,  and  this 
means  schools.  Under  the  plan  of  free  competition  the 
son  need  not  follow  his  father's  occupation,  but  may  take 
the  open  sea  of  life  and  find  whatever  work  suits  him; 
and  this  renders  obsolete  household  instruction  in  trades. 
Indeed,  our  whole  life  is  so  specialized  and  so  subject 
to  change  that  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  special  schools. 

We  may  probably  learn  also,  as  time  goes  on,  that  the 
enlarged  sphere  of  choice  and  the  complexity  of  the  rela- 
tions with  which  it  deals  call  for  a  social  and  moral  edu- 
cation more  rational  and  explicit  than  we  have  had  in  the 

3S6 


DISORGANIZATION:  OTHER  TRADITIONS 

past.  There  are  urgent  problems  with  which  no  power 
can  deal  but  an  instructed  and  organized  public  conscience, 
for  the  source  of  which  we  must  look,  in  part,  to  public 
education. 

In  striving  to  meet  new  requirements  our  schools  have 
too  commonly  extended  their  system  rather  than  their 
vital  energies;  they  have  perhaps  grown  more  rapidly 
in  the  number  of  students,  the  variety  of  subjects  taught, 
and  in  other  numerable  particulars,  than  in  the  inner  and 
spiritual  life,  the  ideals,  the  traditions  and  the  personnel 
of  the  teaching  force.  In  this  as  in  other  expanding  insti- 
tutions life  is  spread  out  rather  thin. 

In  the  country  the  schools  are  largely  inefficient  because 
of  the  falling  off  in  attendance,  the  poor  pay  and  quality  of 
the  teachers,  and  the  persistence  of  a  system  of  instruction 
that  lacks  vital  relation  to  country  life,  tending  in  fact  to 
discredit  it  and  turn  children  toward  the  towns.  In  cities 
the  schools  are  overcrowded — often  insufficient  even  to 
contain  the  children  who  swarm  in  the  poorer  districts — 
and  the  teachers  often  confused,  overworked  and  stupefied 
by  routine.  Very  little,  as  yet,  is  done  to  supply  that 
rational  training  for  industry  which  is  the  urgent  need  of 
most  children,  and  which  industry  itself  no  longer  fur- 
nishes. The  discipline,  both  of  pupils  by  teachers  and  of 
teachers  by  officials,  is  commonly  of  a  mechanical  sort,  and 
promising  innovations  often  fail  because  they  are  badly 
carried  out. 

Our  common  schools  no  doubt  compare  well  enough, 
on  the  whole,  with  those  of  the  past  or  of  other  countries; 
but  when  we  think  of  what  they  might  and  should  do  in 
the  way  of  bringing  order  and  reason  into  our  society, 

38'7 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

and  of  the  life  that  is  going  to  waste  because  they  do  not 
nourish  and  guide  it,  there  is  no  cause  for  congratulation. 

In  our  higher  education  there  is  a  somewhat  similar 
mixture  of  new  materials,  imperfectly  integrated,  with  frag- 
ments of  a  decadent  system.  The  old  classical  discipline  is 
plainly  going,  and  perhaps  it  is  best  that  it  should  go,  but 
surely  nothing  satisfactory  has  arisen  to  take  its  place. 

Among  the  many  things  that  might  be  said  in  this  con- 
nection I  will  touch  upon  only  one  consideration,  generally 
overlooked,  namely  the  value  of  a  common  type  of  culture, 
corresponding  in  this  respect  to  what  used  to  be  known 
as  "the  education  of  a  gentleman."  Since  the  decay  of 
the  classical  type  set  in  our  higher  education,  notwithstand- 
ing so  much  that  is  excellent  in  it,  has  had  practically  no 
common  content  to  serve  as  a  medium  of  communication  and 
spiritual  unity  among  the  educated  class.  In  this  connec- 
tion as  in  so  many  others  the  question  arises  whether  even  an 
inadequate  type  of  culture  is  not  better  than  no  type  at  all. 

Not  only  was  the  classical  tradition  the  widest  and  full- 
est current  of  higher  thought  we  had,  but  it  was  also  a 
treasury  of  symbols  and  associations  tending  to  build  up 
a  common  ideal  life.  Beginning  with  Dante  all  imagina- 
tive modern  literature  appeals  to  the  mind  through  classi- 
cal allusion  and  reverberation,  which,  mingling  with  newer 
elements,  went  to  make  up  a  continuing  body  of  higher 
feeling  and  idea,  upon  which  was  nourished  a  continuing 
fellowship  of  those  competent  to  receive  and  transmit  it. 
All  that  was  best  in  production  came  out  of  it  and  was 
unconsciously  disciplined  by  its  standards. 

It  would  indeed  be  stupid  to  imagine  that  any  assort- 
388 


DISORGANIZATION:  OTHER  TRADITIONS 

ment  of  specialties  can  take  the  place  of  the  culture  stream 
from  which  all  civilization  has  been  watered:  to  lose  that 
would  be  barbarism.  And,  in  fact,  it  is  a  question  whether 
we  are  not,  in  some  degree  and  no  doubt  temporarily, 
actually  relapsing  into  a  kind  of  barbarism  through  the 
sudden  decay  of  a  culture  type  imperfectly  suited  to  our 
use  but  much  better  than  none. 

If  one  has  an  assembly  of  university  graduates  before 
him,  what,  in  the  way  of  like-minded ness,  can  he  count 
on  their  having?  Certainly  not  Latin,  much  less  Greek; 
he  would  be  rash  indeed  to  venture  a  quotation  in  these 
tongues,  unless  for  mystification:  nor  would  allusions  to 
history  or  literature  be  much  safer.  The  truth  is  that 
few  of  the  graduates  will  have  done  serious  work  outside 
of  their  specialty;  and  the  main  thing  they  have  in  com- 
mon is  a  collective  spirit  animated  by  the  recollection  of 
football  victories  and  the  like. 

I  suspect  that  we  may  be  participating  in  the  rise  of  a 
new  type  of  culture  which  shall  revise  rather  than  abandon 
the  old  traditions,  and  v/hose  central  current  will  perhaps 
be  a  large  study  of  the  principles  of  human  life  and  of  their 
expression  in  history,  art,  philanthropy  and  religion.  And 
the  belief  that  the  new  discipline  of  sociology  (much  clari- 
fied and  freed  from  whatever  crudeness  and  pretension 
may  now  impair  it)  is  to  have  a  part  in  this  may  not  be 
entirely  a  matter  of  special  predilection. 

Not  very  long  since  a  critic,  wrote  of  contemporary 
art  as  follows: 

"Every  one  who  is  acquainted  with  technical  matters  in  the  fine 
arts  is  aware  that  the  quietly  'perfect  art  of  oil  painting  is  extinct  or 

389 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

nearly  so,  and  that  in  its  place  we  have  a  great  variety  of  extremely 
clever  and  dexterous  substitutes,  resulting  in  skilful  partial  ex- 
pressions of  artistic  beauty,  but  not  reaching  that  calm  divine  har- 
mony of  aim  and  method  which  we  find  in  Titian  and  Giorgione, 
and  even  in  such  work  as  that  of  Velasquez.  The  greatest  paint- 
ing of  past  times  had  one  quality  which  no  modern  one  really  pos- 
sesses— it  had  tranquillity."  * 

This  touches  upon  something  which — as  we  have  already 
had  occasion  to  observe — impairs  nearly  all  in  the  way  of 
higher  spiritual  achievement  that  our  time  produces — a 
certain  breathlessness  and  lack  of  assured  and  quiet  power. 
And  this  is  connected  with  that  confusion  which  does  not 
permit  the  unquestioned  ascendency  of  any  one  type,  but 
keeps  the  artist  choosing  and  experimenting,  in  the  effort 
to  make  a  whole  which  tradition  does  not  supply  ready- 
made. 

In  times  of  authoritative  tradition  a  type  of  art  grows  up 
by  accretion,  rich  and  pregnant  after  its  kind,  which  each 
artist  unconsciously  inherits  and  easily  expresses.  His 
forerunners  have  done  the  heavy  work,  and  all  that  he 
needs  to  do  is  to  add  the  glamour  of  personal  genius.  The 
grandeur  of  great  literature — like  the  Bible,  or  Homer, 
or  even,  though  less  obviously,  Dante,  Shakespeare  and 
Goethe — is  largely  that  of  traditional  accumulation  and 
concentration.  The  matter  is  old;  it  has  been  worked 
over  and  over  and  the  unessential  squeezed  out,  leaving 
a  pregnant  remainder  which  the  artist  enlivens  with  crea- 
tive imagination.  And  the  same  is  true  of  painting  and 
sculpture. 

So  in  architecture:  a  mediaeval  cathedral  was  the  culmin- 
ation of  a  long  social  growth,  not  greatly  dependent  upon 
*  Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton,  Thoughts  about  Art,  page  99. 

390 


DISORGANIZATION:  OTHER  TRADITIONS 

individual  genius.  ''Not  only  is  there  built  into  it,"  says 
Mr.  Ferguson  in  his  History  of  Modern  Architecture, 
"the  accumulated  thought  of  all  the  men  who  had  occu- 
pied themselves  with  building  during  the  preceding  cen- 
turies .  .  .  but  you  have  the  dream  and  aspiration  of 
the  bishop,  who  designed  it,  of  all  his  clergy,  who  took  an 
interest  in  it,  of  the  master-mason,  who  was  skilled  in  con- 
struction; of  the  carver,  the  painter,  the  glazier,  of  the 
host  of  men  who,  each  in  his  own  craft,  knew  all  that  had 
been  done  before  them,  and  had  spent  their  lives  in  strug- 
gling to  surpass  the  work  of  their  forefathers.  .  .  .  You 
may  wander  in  such  a  building  for  weeks  or  for  months 
together  and  never  know  it  all.  A  thought  or  a  motive 
peeps  out  through  every  joint,  and  is  manifest  in  every 
moulding,  and  the  very  stones  speak  to  you  with  a  voice 
as  clear  and  as  easily  understood  as  the  words  of  the  poet 
or  the  teaching  of  the  historian.  Hence,  in  fact,  the  little 
interest  we  can  feel  in  even  the  stateliest  of  modern  build- 
ings, and  the  undying,  never  satisfied  interest  with  which 
we  study  over  and  over  again  those  which  have  been  pro- 
duced under  a  different  and  truer  system  of  art."* 

In  the  same  way  the  Greek  architect  of  the  time  of 
Pericles  "had  before  him  a  fixed  and  sacred  standard  of 
form.  ...  He  had  no  choice;  his  strength  was  not 
wasted  among  various  ideals;  that  which  he  had  inherited 
was  a  religion  to  him.  .  .  .  Undiverted  by  side  issues  as 
to  the  general  form  of  his  monument,  undisturbed  by  any 
of  the  complicated  conditions  of  modern  life,  he  was  able 
to  concentrate  his  clear  intellect  upon  the  perfection  of  his 
details;   his  sensitiveness  to  harmony  of  proportion  was 

*  Page  24. 

391 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

refined  to  the  last  limits:    his  feeling  for  purity  of  line 
reached  the  point  of  a  religion."  * 

The  modern  artist  may  have  as  much  personal  ability 
as  the  Greek  or  the  mediaeval,  but,  having  no  communal 
tradition  to  share  in  his  work,  he  has  to  spread  bis  person- 
ality out  very  thin  to  cover  the  too  broad  task  assigned  to 
it,  and  this  thinness  becomes  the  general  fault  of  con- 
temporary sesthetic  production.  If  he  seeks  to  avoid  it 
by  determined  concentration  there  is  apt  to  be  something 
strained  and  over-conscious  in  the  result. 
*  Van  Brunt,  Greek  Lines,  95  ff. 


392 


PART  Vi 
PUBLIC  WILL 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

THE  FUNCTION   OF  PUBLIC  WILL 

Public  and  Private  Will — The  Lack  of  Public  Will — Social 
Wrongs  Commonly  not  Willed  at  All, 

What  I  shall  say  about  Public  Will — which  is  only  an- 
other phase  of  the  Democratic  Mind — might  well  have 
been  introduced  under  Part  III;  but  I  put  it  here  be- 
cause in  a  sense  it  rounds  off  our  whole  inquiry,  involving 
some  general  conclusions  as  to  the  method  and  possibility 
of  social  betterment. 

By  public  will  we  may  understand  the  deliberate  self- 
direction  of  any  social  group.  There  is,  of  course,  noth- 
ing mysterious  about  it,  for  it  is  of  the  same  nature  as 
public  opinion,  and  is  simply  that  so  informed  and  organ- 
ized as  to  be  an  effective  guide  to  the  life  of  the  group. 
Nor  can  we  say  just  when  this  state  is  reached — it  is  a 
matter  of  degree — but  we  may  assume  that  when  a  group 
intelligently  pursues  a  steadfast  policy  some  measure,  at 
least,  of  public  will  has  been  achieved.  Many  savage 
tribes  have  it  in  a  small  way;  the  Jews  developed  it  under 
the  leadership  of  Moses  and  Joshua;  the  mediaeval  church 
and  the  Venetian  aristocracy  displayed  it.  It  is  capable, 
like  individual  will,  of  indefinite  improvement  in  insight, 
stability  and  scope. 

Just  as  public  and  private  opinion  are  general  and 
395 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

particular  phases  of  the  same  thing,  so  will  is  a  single 
complex  activity  with  individual  and  collective  aspects. 
But  there  is  this  difference  between  public  and  private 
wdll — just  as  there  is  between  other  individual  and  collec- 
tive phases  of  mind — that  the  activity  usually  appears  less 
conscious  when  looked  at  in  its  larger  aspect  than  when 
considered  in  detail.  I  mean  that  we  generally  know  a 
great  deal  better  what  we  are  about  as  individuals  than 
we  do  as  members  of  large  wholes :  when  one  sits  down  to 
dinner  he  is  conscious  of  hunger  and  has  a  will  to  appease 
it;  but  if  his  action  has  any  bearing  upon  the  community, 
as  no  doubt  it  has,  he  is  unaware  of  the  fact.  In  the 
same  way  the  activities  of  business  have  much  conscious- 
ness and  purpose  when  looked  at  in  detail,  but  little  when 
taken  collectively.  A  thousand  men  buy  and  sell  in  the 
market,  each  with  a  very  definite  intention  regarding  his 
own  transaction,  but  the  market  price  which  results  from 
their  bargaining  is  an  almost  mechanical  outcome,  not  a 
matter  of  conscious  intention  at  all.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  are  conscious  wholes  in  which  the  general  result 
may  be  as  clearly  purposed  as  the  particular;  as  when  an 
intelligent  crew  is  working  a  vessel,  each  attending  to  his 
own  work  but  understanding  perfectly  what  the  general 
purpose  is  and  how  he  is  contributing  to  it. 

So  if  we  restrict  the  word  will  to  that  which  shows  reflect- 
ive consciousness  and  purpose  there  is  a  sense  in  which  a 
certain  choice  (as  of  the  purchaser  in  the  market)  may 
express  individual  will  but  not  public  will :  there  is  a  pub- 
lic side  to  it,  of  course,  but  of  an  involuntary  sort. 

We  must  remember,  also,  that  although  large  wholes 
are,  as  a  rule,  much  inferior  to  individuals  in  explicit  con- 

396 


THE  INUNCTION  OF  PUBLIC  WILL 

sciGusness  and  purpose,  they  are  capable  of  rational 
structure  and  action  of  a  somewhat  mechanical  sort  far 
transcending  that  of  the  individual  mind.  This  is  because 
of  the  vast  sco^:e  and  indefinite  duration  they  may  have, 
which  enables  them  to  store  up  and  systematize  the  work 
of  innumerable  persons,  as  a  nation  does,  or  even  an  in- 
dustrial corporation.  A  l^ge  whole  may  and  usually  does 
display  in  its  activity  a  kind  of  rationality  or  adaptation 
of  means  to  ends  which,  as  a  whole,  was  never  planned  or 
purposed  by  anybody,  but  is  the  involuntary  result  of  in- 
numerable special  endeavors.  Thus  the  British  colonial 
empire,  which  looks  like  the  result  of  deliberate  and  far- 
sighted  policy,  is  conceded  to  have  been,  for  the  most 
part,  the  unforeseen  outcome  of  personal  enterprise.  An 
institution,  as  we  have  seen  in  previous  chapters,  is  not 
fully  human,  but  may,  nevertheless,  be  superhuman,  in  the 
sense  that  it  may  express  a  wisdom  beyond  the  grasp  of 
any  one  man.  And  even  in  a  moral  aspect  it  is  by  no 
means  safe  to  assume  that  the  personal  is  superior  to  the 
collective.  This  may  or  may  not  be  the  case,  depending, 
among  other  things,  upon  whether  there  has  been  a  past 
growth  of  collective  moral  judgment  upon  the  point  in 
question.  The  civil  law,  for  example,  which  is  the  result 
of  such  a  growth,  is  for  the  most  part  a  much  safer  guide 
regarding  property  rights  than  the  untrained  judgment  of 
any  individual. 

But  after  all  public  thought  and  will  have  the  same 
superiority   over   unconscious   adaptation    (wonderful  as 
the  results  of  that  often  are)  as  private  thought  and  will 
have  over  mere  instinct  and  habit.     They  represent  a> 
higher  principle  of  coordination  and  adaptation,  one  which.  > 

397 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

properly  employed,  saves  energy  and  prevents  mistakes. 
The  British  may  have  succeeded  on  instinct,  but  probably 
they  would  have  succeeded  better  if  more  reason  had  been 
mixed  with  it;  and  the  latter  may  save  them  from  the  de- 
cay which  has  attacked  other  great  empires. 

It  is  quite  plain  that  the  social  development  of  the  past 
has  been  mostly  bUnd  and  without  human  intention. 
Any  page  of  history  will  show  that  men  have  been  unable 
to  foresee,  much  less  to  control,  the  larger  movements  of 
life.  There  have  been  seers,  but  they  have  had  only 
flashes  of  light,  and  have  almost  never  been  men  of  im- 
mediate sway.  Even  great  statesmen  have  lived  in  the 
present,  feeling  their  way,  and  having  commonly  no  pur- 
pose beyond  the  aggrandizement  of  their  country  or  their 
order.  Such  partial  exceptions  as  the  framing  of  the 
American  constitution  by  the  light  of  history  and  philoso- 
phy, and  with  some  prevision  of  its  actual  working,  are 
confined  to  recent  times  and  excite  a  special  wonder. 

In  particular  the  democratic  movement  of  modern  times 
has  been  chiefly  unconscious.  As  De  Tocqueville  says 
of  its  course  in  France,  ".  .  .it  has  always  advanced 
without  guidance.  The  heads  of  the  state  have  made  no 
preparation  for  it,  and  it  has  advanced  without  their  con« 
sent  or  without  their  knowledge.  The  most  powerful,  the 
most  intelligent  and  the  most  moral  classes  of  the  nation 
have  never  attempted  ...  to  guide  it."* 

Will  has  been  alive  only  in  details,  in  the  smaller  courses 
of  life,  in  what  each  man  was  doing  for  himself  and  his 
neighbors,    while    the    larger    structure    and    movement 
*  Democracy  in  America,  vol.  i;  Introduction. 
398 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  PUBLIC  WILL 

iiave  been  subconscious,  and  for  that  reason  erratic  and 
wasteful.  For  it  is  just  as  true  of  large  wholes  as  of  indi- 
viduals that  if  they  blunder  on  without  knowing  what  they 
are  doing  much  of  their  energy  is  lost.  No  doubt  it  is 
better  to  go  ahead  even  blindly  than  to  stand  still,  and  re- 
markable things  have  been  achieved  in  this  way,  but  they 
are  little  to  what  might  be  done  if  we  could  work  out  our 
highest  human  nature  intelligently,  with  assurance  and 
prevision,  and  on  a  large  scale.  A  society  which  did  this 
would  have  the  same  sort  of  superiority  to  present  society 
as  man  to  his  sub-human  progenitors. 

The  very  idea  of  Progress,  of  orderly  improvement  on 
a  great  scale,  is  well  known  to  be  of  recent  origin,  or  at 
least  recent  diffusion,  the  prevalent  view  in  the  past  hav- 
ing been  that  the  actual  state  of  things  was,  in  its  general 
character,  unalterable.* 

Even  at  the  present  day  social  phenomena  of  a  large 
sort  are  for  the  most  part  not  willed  at  all,  but  are  the  un- 
foreseen result  of  diverse  and  partial  endeavors.  It  is 
seldom  that  any  large  plan  of  social  action  is  intelligently 
drawn  up  and  followed  out.  Each  interest  works  along 
in  a  somewhat  blind  and  selfish  manner,  grasping,  fight- 
ing and  groping.  As  regards  general  ends  most  of  the^ 
energy  is  wasted;  and  yet  a  sort  of  advance  takes  place, 
more  like  the  surging  of  a  throng  than  the  orderly  move- 
ment of  troops.  Who  can  pretend  that  the  American  people, 
for  instance,  are  guided  by  any  clear  and  rational  plan  in 
their  economic,  political  and  religious  development  ?    They 

*  Of  course  the  Greeks  had  the  philosophical  conception  of  gen- 
eral flux,  but  I  do  not  know  that  they  apphed  it  to  society  with  such 
distinctness  as  to  give  anything  worth  calling  an  idea  of  progress, 

399 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

have  glimpses  and  impulses,  but  hardly  a  will,  except  on  a 
few  matters  of  near  and  urgent  interest. 

In  the  same  way  the  wrongs  that  afflict  society  are  seldom 
willed  by  any  one  or  any  group,  but  are  by-products  of 
acts  of  will  having  other  objects;  they  are  done,  as  some 
one  has  said,  rather  with  the  elbows  than  the  fists.  There 
is  surprisingly  little  ill-intent,  and  the  more  one  looks  into 
life  the  less  he  finds  of  that  vivid  chiaroscuro  of  conscious 
goodness  and  badness  his  childish  teaching  has  led  him 
to  expect. 

Take,  for  instance,  a  conspicuous  evil  like  the  sweating 
system  in  the  garment  trades  of  New  York  or  London. 
Here  are  people,  largely  women  and  children,  forced  to 
work  twelve,  fourteen,  sometimes  sixteen  hours  a  day,  in 
the  midst  of  dirt,  bad  air  and  contagion,  suflPering  the  de- 
struction of  home  life  and  decent  nurture;  and  all  for  a 
wage  hardly  sufficient  to  buy  the  bare  necessities  of  life. 
But  if  one  looks  for  sin  dark  enough  to  cast  such  a  shadow 
he  will  scarcely  find  it.  ^'Neither  hath  this  man  sinned 
nor  his  parents."  The  ''sweater"  or  immediate  employer, 
to  whom  he  first  turns,  is  commonly  himself  a  workman, 
not  much  raised  above  the  rest  and  making  but  little 
profit  on  his  transactions.  Beyond  him  is  the  large  dealer, 
usually  a  well-intentioned  man,  quite  willing  that  things 
should  be  better  if  they  can  be  made  so  without  too  much 
trouble  or  pecuniary  loss  to  himself.  He  is  only  doing 
what  others  do  and  what,  in  his  view,  the  conditions  of 
trade  require.  And  so  on;  the  closer  one  gets  to  the  facts 
the  more  evident  it  is  that  nowhere  is  the  indubitable 
wickedness  our  feelings  have  pictured.     It  is  quite  the 

400 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  PUBLIC  WILL 

same  with  political  corruption  and  the  venal  alliance  be- 
tween wealth  and  party  management.  The  men  who 
control  wealthy  interests  are  probably  no  worse  inten- 
tioned  than  the  rest  of  us;  they  only  do  what  they  think 
they  are  forced  to  do  in  order  to  hold  their  own;  and  so 
with  the  politician:  he  finds  that  others  are  selling  their 
power,  and  easily  comes  to  think  of  it  as  a  matter  of  course. 
In  truth  the  consciously,  flagrantly  wicked  man  is,  and 
perhaps  always  has  been,  a  fiction,  for  the  most  part,  of 
denunciation.  The  psychologist  will  hardly  find  him,  but 
will  feel  that  most  sorts  of  badness  are  easily  enough 
comprehensible,  and  will  perhaps  agree  with  the  view 
ascribed  to  Goethe,  that  he  never  heard  of  a  crime  which 
he  might  not  himself  have  committed. 

Naturally  the  more  mechanical  the  system  is  the  less 
of  will  and  of  live  human  nature  there  is  in  its  acts.  So 
in  Russia,  says  Tolstoy,  "Some  make  the  laws,  others 
execute  them;  some  train  men  by  discipline  to  auto- 
cratic obedience;  and  these  last,  in  their  turn,  become  the 
instruments  of  coercion,  and  slay  their  kind  without  know- 
ing why  or  to  what  end."  *  In  our  reading  and  thinking 
democracy  there  is  at  least  the  feeling  that  the  working 
of  the  whole  ought  to  be  the  fulfilment  of  some  humane  pur- 
pose, and  a  continual  protest  that  this  is  not  more  the  case. 

I  cannot  hold  out  a  prospect  of  the  early  appearance 
of  an  adequate  public  will;  it  is  a  matter  of  gradual  im-^ 
jrovement,  but  it  seems  clear  that  there  is  a  trend  this 
way,  based,  mechanically,  on  recent  advances  in  com" 
munication,  and,_as  regards  training,  on  the  multiform  dis- 
ciplines  in  voluntary  cooperation  which  modern  life  affords. 
*  My  Religion,  45. 
401 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

GOVERNMENT  AS  PUBLIC  WILL 

30VERNMENT  NoT  THE  OnLY  AgeNT  OF  PuBLIC  WiLL — ^ThE  RELA- 
TIVE Point  of  View;  Advantages  of  Government  as  an 
Agent — Mechanical  Tendency  of  Government — Char- 
acteristics Favorable  to  Government  Activity — Munici- 
pal Socialism — Self-expression  the  Fundamental  Demand 
OF  the  People — Actual  Extension  of  State  Functions. 

In  the  growth  of  pubHc  will  any  agency  amenable  to 
public  opinion  may  serve  as  an  instrument;  and  this  means, 
of  course,  any  sort  of  rational  activity,  personal  as  well  as 
institutional.  Thus  the  work  of  a  secluded  scientist,  like 
Pasteur  or  Edison,  taken  together  with  the  general  ac- 
ceptance and  application  of  his  results,  is  as  much  an  act 
of  public  will  as  the  proceedings  of  a  legislature,  and  often 
more — because  they  may  show  a  more  public  spirit  and  ? 
wider  knowledge  and  foresight.  V\^hat  is  necessary  is 
that  somewhere  there  shall  be  effectual  purpose  and  en- 
deavor based  on  a  large  grasp  of  the  situation.  In  short, 
public  will  is  simply  a  matter  of  the  more  eflBcient  organi- 
zation of  the  general  mind :  whatever  in  the  way  of  leader- 
ship or  mechanism  contributes  to  the  latter  has  a  share  in 
it;  and  we  may  naturally  expect  it  to  progress  rather  by 
the  quickening  and  coordination  of  many  agencies  than  by 
the  aggrandizement  of  any  particular  one.* 

The  view  which  many  hold  that  public  will  must  be 

chiefly  if  not  wholly  identified  with  the  institution  of  gov- 

*  If  the  reader  is  not  clear  as  to  what  I  mean  by  pubUc  will,  I  beg 
to  refer  him  to  chapters  I,  XII  and  XXXIV. 

402 


GOVERNMENT  AS  PUBLIC  WILL 

eminent  is  a  just  one  only  in  a  certain  narrow  sense. 
That  is  to  say,  the  mechanism  of  government  is  indeed  the 
most  definite  and  authoritative  expression  of  pubUc  choice, 
and  if  public  will  is  to  be  limited  to  what  is  decided  by  a 
count  of  voices  and  carried  out,  if  necessary,  by  force, 
then  the  government  is  its  only  agent.  But  only  a  small 
part  of  the  will  of  society  is  of  this  sort.  In  a  larger  sense 
it  is  a  diversified  whole,  embracing  the  thought  and  purpose 
of  all  institutions  and  associations,  formal  and  informal, 
that  have  any  breadth  of  aim,  and  even,  as  I  have  said,  of 
secluded  individuals.  Surely  the  true  will  of  humanity 
never  has  been  and  is  not  likely  to  be  concentrated  in  a 
single  agent,  but  works  itself  out  through  many  instru- 
ments, and  the  unity  we  need  is  something  much  more 
intricate  and  flexible  than  could  be  secured  through  the 
state  alone.  Like  other  phases  of  organization,  govern- 
ment is  merely  one  way  of  doing  things,  fitted  by  its  char- 
acter for  doing  some  things  and  unfitted  for  doing  others. 

As  to  what  these  things  are,  we  must,  of  course,  take 
the  relative  point  of  view  and  hold  that  the  sphere  of  gov- 
ernment operations  is  not,  and  should  not  be,  fixed,  but 
varies  with  the  social  condition  at  large.  Hard-and-fast 
theories  of  what  the  state  may  best  be  and  do,  whether  re- 
strictive or  expansive,  we  may  well  regard  with  distrust. 
It  is  by  no  means  impossible  that  the  whole  character  of 
the  political  state  and  of  its  relation  to  the  rest  of  life  is 
undergoing  change  of  an  unforeseeable  kind  which  will 
eventually  make  our  present  dogmas  on  this  point  quite 
obsolete. 

The  most  evident  advantage  of  government  as  a  social 

403. 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

instrument — that  which  makes  it  the  logical  recourse  of 
those  who  seek  a  short  way  to  regeneration — is  its  power 
and  reach.  It  is  the  strongest  and  most  extensive  of  our 
institutions,  with  elaborate  machinery  ready  to  undertake 
almost  anything,  and  power  limited,  in  the  long  run,  only 
by  public  opinion. 

Moreover,  under  a  democratic  system,  it  is  definitely 
responsible  to  the  people.  Not  that  it  always  serves  them: 
we  know  too  well  how  apt  it  is  to  respect  particular  rather 
than  general  interests:  but  there  is  always  a  definite  means 
of  bringing  it  into  line  with  public  thought,  always  reins 
which  the  people  may  grasp  if  they  will.  This  has  the 
momentous  effect  that  there  is  less  jealousy  of  a  demo- 
cratic government,  other  things  equal,  than  of  any  other 
form  of  power.  Feeling  that  it  is  potentially  at  least  their 
own,  the  people  will  endure  from  it  with  patience  abuses 
that  would  be  intolerable  from  any  other  source.  The 
maddening  thing  about  the  oppression  of  private  monop- 
olies is  the  personal  subjection,  the  humiliation  of  being 
unable  to  assert  oneself,  while  in  public  life  the  free  citizen 
has  always  a  way  of  regular  and  dignified  protest.  He  ap- 
peals not  to  an  alien  but  to  a  larger  self. 

The  most  general  defect  of  government  is  that  which  goes 
with  its  good  qualities.  Just  because  it  is  the  most  ancient 
and  elaborate  machine  we  have,  it  is  apt  to  be  too  me- 
chanical, too  rigid,  too  costly  and  unhuman.  As  the  most 
institutional  of  institutions  it  has  a  certain  tendency 
toward  formalism,  and  is  objectionable  on  grounds  of 
red-tape,  lack  of  economy  and  remoteness  from  the 
fresher  needs  of  the  people. 

404 


GOVERNMENT  AS  PUBLIC  WILL 

It  is  easy,  however,  for  one  impressed  with  this  idea  to  be 
too  indiscriminate  in  its  application.  Much  depends 
upon  the  kind  of  government  actually  in  question,  upon 
the  interest  the  people  take  in  it,  and  many  other  con- 
ditions. 

In  the  United  States,  for  instance,  each  of  us  lives 
under  three  somewhat  distinct  kinds  of  government — 
federal,  state  and  local — each  of  which  has  a  large  measure 
of  practical  independence  of  the  others,  and  may  be 
treated  as  a  separate  agent  of  public  will.  Moreover,  it  is 
often  the  case  that  the  larger  systems — say  the  federal 
post-office — allow  a  great  deal  of  local  autonomy  in  their 
administration,  making  it  flexible  to  local  opinion. 

Under  this  system,  a  township,  village  or  small  city  is 
no  unwieldy  machine,  but  pretty  much  what  the  people 
see  fit  to  make  it,  and  the  fact  that  it  is  a  phase  of  govern- 
ment is  no  sufiicient  reason  why  any  affairs  it  may  choose 
to  undertake  may  not  be  as  humanly  and  flexibly  admin- 
istered as  those  of  a  non-political  association  of  equal 
extent.  They  often  are  so  administered,  and  the  same 
is  true  of  great  cities  wherever  a  vigorous  civic  conscious- 
ness exists  and  has  had  time  to  work  out  its  instruments. 
The  question  is  only  one  of  organization,  and  this  con- 
fronts non-political  associations  as  well  as  political;  large 
private  incorporations  having  notoriously  about  the  same 
experience  of  formalism,  extravagance  and  malfeasance 
as  the  state. 

There  are  certain  characteristics  whose  presence  in  a 
given  function  is  favorable  to  state  activity,  though  they  can-« 
not  be  said  to  indicate  clearly  where  it  should  begin  or  end. 

405 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

One  of  these,  naturally,  is  the  inadequacy  or  harmfulness 
of  other  agencies.  The  fact  that  a  work  is  deemed  neces- 
sary and  that  there  is  no  other  adequate  way  of  doing  it 
is  the  real  basis  of  most  state  functions;  not  only  the  pri- 
mary ones  of  waging  war  and  keeping  order,  but  of  issuing 
money,  building  roads,  bridges  and  harbors,  collecting 
statistics,  instituting  free  schools,  controUing  monopolies, 
and  so  on. 

Another  is  that  the  work  in  question  should  be  sus- 
ceptible of  comparatively  simple  and  uniform  methods; 
since  the  more  various  and  intricate  a  function  is,  the  more 
difficulty  will  be  found  in  getting  it  properly  done  by  the 
powerful  but  usually  somewhat  clumsy  mechanism  of 
the  state.  The  reasons  that  may  justify  a  state  post  or 
telegraph,  for  instance,  do  not  necessarily  suffice  for  the 
assumption  of  the  far  more  complicated  business  of  the 
railways. 

Again,  whatever  the  state  undertakes  should  be  some- 
thing Hkely  to  be  watched  by  public  opinion;  not  necessa- 
rily by  the  whole  public,  but  at  least  by  some  powerful  group 
steadfastly  interested  in  efficiency  and  capable  of  judging 
whether  it  is  attained.  In  the  United  States,  certainly, 
the  successes  or  failures  of  government  are  largely  ex- 
plicable on  this  ground.  Public  education  works  well, 
in  spite  of  a  constant  leaning  toward  formalism,  because 
the  people  take  a  close  and  jealous  interest  in  it,  while  the 
monetary  and  financial  functions  are  in  like  manner  safe- 
guarded by  the  scrutiny  of  the  commercial  world.  But  in 
the  matter  of  tariffs  the  scrutiny  of  the  latter,  inad- 
equately balanced  by  that  of  any  other  interest,  has 
produced  what  is  practically  class  legislation;  and  some- 

406 


GOVERNMENT  AS  PUBLIC  WILL 

thing  similar  may  be  said  of  many  phases  of  government 
action.* 


From  such  considerations  it  seems  that  local  government, 
because  it  is  on  a  small  scale  and  because  the  people  will 
presumably  be  more  able  and  willing  to  watch  the  details 
of  its  operation,  should  be  the  sphere  in  which  extension 
of  functions  has  the  most  chance  of  success.  The  more 
the  citizen  feels  that  government  is  close  to  him  and  amen- 
able to  his  will,  the  more,  other  things  equal,  he  should  be 
inclined  to  trust  it  and  to  put  himself  into  it.  In  spite  of 
much  disappointing  experience,  it  seems  reasonable  to 
expect  that  small  units,  dealing  with  the  every-day  inter- 
ests of  the  people,  will,  in  the  long  run,  enlist  an  ample 
share  of  their  capacity  and  integrity. 

And  yet  the  nearness  of  the  whole  to  the  will  of  the  mem- 
ber is  psychical,  not  spatial,  so  that  if  the  citizen  for  some 
reason  feels  closer  to  the  central  government  and  trusts  it 
more,  he  may  be  more  willing  to  aggrandize  it.  In  the 
United  States  the  people  often  have  more  interest  and  con- 
fidence in  the  federal  system  than  in  their  particular  states 
and  cities;  one  reason  being  that  the  constant  enlargement 
of  private  organization — as  in  the  case  of  railways  and  the 
so-called  trusts — puts  it  beyond  the  power  of  local  control. 
Of  course  there  is  a  natural  sphere  of  development  for 
each  of  the  various  phases  of  government. 

Municipal  socialism  has  the  great  advantage  over  other 
sorts  of  state  extension  of  being  optional  by  small  units, 
and  of  permitting  all  sorts  of  diversity,  experiment  and 

*  These  principles  are  much  the  same  as  those  put  forth  by  W.  S. 
Jevons.     See  his  Methods  of  Social  Reform,  355. 

407 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

comparison.  There  is  nothing  in  it  of  that  deadening  uni- 
formity and  obliteration  of  alternatives  involved  in  the 
blanket  socialism  of  the  central  state.  The  evils  we  suffer 
from  private  monopolies — against  which  we  may  always 
invoke  the  state  if  not  other  competitors — are  as  nothing 
compared  with  those  to  be  feared  from  an  all-embracing 
state-monopoly;  and  I  feel  sure  that  common-sense,  a 
shrewd  attachment  to  the  principle  of  "checks  and  bal- 
ances," and  the  spirit  of  local  individuality  will  preserve 
the  English-speaking  nations,  at  least,  from  serious 
danger  of  the  latter.  In  countries  like  France,  where  there 
is  a  great  traditional  preponderance  of  the  central  au- 
thority, it  may  be  among  the  possibilities,  though  the  prob- 
able decline  of  war — the  main  cause  of  mechanical  con- 
solidation— should  work  in  the  opposite  direction. 

There  are  few  things  that  would  be  more  salutary  to  the 
life  of  our  people  than  a  lively  and  effective  civic  conscious- 
ness in  towns,  villages  and  rural  communities.  I  trust 
this  is  growing  and  feel  no  dread  of  any  socialism  which 
it  may  prove  to  involve.  One  of  the  best  things  I  have 
known  Ann  Arbor  to  do  was  to  hold  a  public-school  carni- 
val on  the  occasion  of  the  opening  of  a  new  high  school. 
There  were  all  sorts  of  performances  by  the  children, 
largely  of  their  own  devising,  and  the  people  were  interested 
and  brought  together  as  never,  perhaps,  before.  It  was 
communal,  it  was  ours,  and  the  social  spirit  it  evoked  was 
a  common  joy.  Enterprises  of  the  same  nature  on  a 
larger  and  more  permanent  scale,  such  as  the  recreation 
centres  of  Chicago,  are  beginning  to  arise  in  various  '^arts 
of  the  country. 

It  seems  probable  that  the  plain  citizen  must  look  largely 
408 


GOVERNMENT  AS  PUBLIC  WILL 

to  the  communal  life  to  supply  that  chance  for  self-ex- 
pression which  town  residence  and  the  specialized  nature 
of  modern  industry  have  so  largely  restricted.  Urban  life 
is  inevitable,  and  instead  of  regretting  the  country  the 
city-dwellers  had  better  make  the  most  of  the  new  situa- 
tion, through  playgrounds,  public  amusements,  socialized 
schools,  recreation  centres,  and,  in  general,  a  more  vital 
and  human  civic  organization.* 

The  fundamental  need  of  men  is  for  self-expression,  for 
making  their  will  felt  in  whatever  they  feel  to  be  close  to 
their  hearts;  and  they  will  use  the  state  in  so  far  and  in 
such  a  manner  as  they  find  it  helpful  in  gratifying  this 
need. 

The  more  self-expression,  therefore,  there  is  in  other 
spheres  of  life,  the  less  need,  relatively,  people  will  feel 
of  acting  through  government — a  principle  which  should 
remind  those  who  dread  the  growth  of  the  latter  that  the 
only  sure  way  to  restrict  it  is  by  developing  a  real,  affirma- 
tive freedom  in  other  relations.  Political  democracy  plus 
social  and  economic  oppression  is  pretty  sure  to  equal 
state  socialism,  because  men  will  look  to  political  control 
as  a  refuge.  But  if  general  conditions  are  free  and  open, 
men  will  be  the  more  sensible,  by  contrast,  of  the  unfree 
aspects  of  state  activity. 

A  lack  of  economy  in  government  will  not  much  check 
its  aggrandizement  if  the  need  of  it  is  strongly  felt  on 
other  grounds,  since  human  nature,  on  the  whole,  cares 
very  little  for  economy  in  comparison  with  freedom  and 
justice.     One  will  more  willingly  pay  a  water-tax  of  twenty 

*  Compare  Simon  N.  Patten,  The  New  Basis  of  Civilization,  124. 

409 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

dollars  to  a  city  government  in  which  he  has  a  voice  than 
of  ten  to  an  alien  and  overbearing  corporation. 

In  our  day  there  is  a  tendency  toward  extension  of  state 
functions  which  after  all  is  perhaps  no  more  than  symmet- 
rical in  view  of  the  general  expansion  of  larger  structures 
in  every  sphere.  It  does  not  seem  to  outstrip  the  growth, 
for  instance,  of  private  corporations,  or  labor  unions,  or 
of  individual  wealth.  It  is  easy  to  see  a  tendency  to  state 
socialism  if  you  look  only  at  the  new  functions  of  the  state; 
easy  to  see  an  opposite  tendency  if  you  fix  your  attention 
on  private  organization.  Whether  or  not  the  state  is 
relatively  increasing  its  sphere  is  not  easy  to  decide.  The 
new  conditions  of  life  bring  men  closer  together,  creating 
a  general  need  of  wider  organization;  and,  so  far  as  now 
appears,  this  need  is  to  be  met  by  the  simultaneous  de- 
velopment of  various  structures  already  well  begun;  such 
as  popular  government  and  education,  private  industrial 
and  commercial  corporations,  labor  unions,  mutual-aid 
societies,  philanthropical  associations,  and  so  on. 

The  special  demand  for  state  extension  seems  to  spring 
chiefly  from  two  conditions:  the  need  to  control  the  ex- 
orbitant power  of  private  economic  associations,  and  the 
need  of  meeting  novel  problems  arising  from  life  in  great 
cities.  In  these  and  similar  directions  an  intelligent  and 
practised  democracy  will  proceed  tentatively,  *'with  the 
firm  foot  below,"  always  balancing  the  loss  against  the 
gain.  Experiments  in  political  socialism  are  sure  to  be  tried, 
which  will  prove  instructive  and  perhaps  beneficial.  How 
far  they  will  be  carried  no  man  can  say,  but  I  see  no  special 
reason  to  fear  that  they  will  go  to  any  pernicious  extreme. 

410 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

SOME  PHASES  OF  THE  LARGER  WILL 

Growing  Efficiency  of  the  Intellectual  Processes — Organic 
Idealism — The  Larger  Morality — Indirect  Service- 
Increasing  Simplicity  and  Flexibility  in  Social  Structure 
— Public  Will  Saves  Part  of  the  Cost  of  Change — Human 
Nature  the  Guiding  Force  Behind  Public  Will. 

The  main  source  of  a  more  effective  public  will  is  to 
be  sought  not,  peculiarly,  in  the  greater  activity  of  govern- 
ment, but  in  the  growing  efficiency  of  the  intellectual  and 
moral  processes  as  a  whole.  This  general  striving  of  the 
public  mind  toward  clearer  consciousness  is  too  evident 
to  escape  any  observer.  In  every  province  of  life  a  multi- 
form social  knowledge  is  arising  and,  mingling  with  the 
higher  impulses  of  human  nature,  is  forming  a  system  of 
rational  ideals,  which  through  leadership  and  emulation 
gradually  work  their  way  into  practice. 

Compare,  for  instance,  the  place  now  taken  in  our 
universities  by  history,  economics,  political  science,  soci- 
ology and  the  like  with  the  attention  given  them,  say,  in 
1875,  when  in  fact  some  of  these  studies  had  no  place  at 
all.  Or  consider  the  multiplication  since  the  same  date 
of  government  bureaus — federal,  state  and  local — whose 
main  function  is  to  collect,  arrange  and  disseminate  social 
knowledge.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  governments 
are  becoming,  more  and  more,  vast  laboratories  of  social 
science.     Observe,  also,  the  number  of  books  and  period-^ 

411 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

icals  seriously  devoted  to  these  subjects.  No  doubt  much 
of  this  work  is  feverish  and  shallow — as  must  be  expected 
in  a  time  of  change — but  there  is,  on  the  whole,  nothing 
more  certain  or  more  hopeful  than  the  advance  in  the 
larger  self-knowledge  of  mankind. 

One  result  of  this  clearer  consciousness  is  that  idealism 
is  coming  to  be  organic;  that  is  to  say  each  particular  ideal 
is  coming  to  be  formed  and  pursued  in  subordination  to 
a  system  of  ideals  based  on  a  large  perception  of  fact. 
\Miile  putting  a  special  enthusiasm  into  his  own  work, 
the  idealist  is  learning  that  he  needs  to  have  also  a  general 
understanding  of  every  good  work,  and  of  the  whole  to 
which  all  contribute.  For  him  to  imagine  that  his  is  the 
only  work  worth  doing  is  as  unfortunate  as  for  the  cap- 
tain of  a  company  to  imagine  that  he  is  conducting  the 
whole  campaign.  Other  things  equal,  the  most  effective 
idealists  are  those  who  are  most  sane,  and  who  have  a 
sense  for  the  compHcation,  interdependence  and  inertia 
of  human  conditions. 

A  study  of  the  ideals  and  programmes  that  have  had  most 
acceptance  even  in  recent  years  would  make  it  apparent  that 
our  state  of  mind  regarding  society  has  been  much  like 
that  which  prevailed  regarding  the  natural  world  when 
men  sought  the  philosopher's  stone  and  the  fountain  of 
perpetual  youth.  Much  energy  has  been  wasted,  or  nearly 
wasted,  in  the  exclusive  and  intolerant  advocacy  of  special 
schemes — single  tax,  prohibition,  state  socialism  and  the 
like — each  of  which  was  imagined  by  its  adherents  to  be 
the  key  to  millennial  conditions.  Every  year,  however, 
makes  converts  to  the  truth  that  no  isolated  scheme  can  be 

412 


SOME  PHASES  OF  THE  LARGER  WILL 

a  good  scheme,  and  that  real  progress  must  be  an  advance 
all  along  the  line.  Those  who  see  only  one  thing  can 
never  see  that  truly,  and  so  must  work,  even  at  that,  in 
a  somewhat  superficial  and  erratic  manner. 

For  similar  reasons  our  moral  schemes  and  standards 
must  grow  larger  and  more  commensurate  with  the  life 
which  they  aim  to  regulate.*  The  higher  will  can  never 
work  out  unless  it  is  as  intelligently  conceived  and  organ- 
ized as  commerce  and  politics.  Evidently  if  we  do  not 
see  how  life  really  goes  and  what  good  and  ill  are  under 
actual  conditions,  w«  can  neither  inculcate  nor  follow 
the  better  courses.  There  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  learn 
to  feel  and  to  effectuate  kinds  of  right  involving  a  sense  of 
wider  and  remoter  results  than  men  have  been  used  to 
take  into  account.  As  fast  as  science  enables  us  to  trace 
the  outcome  of  a  given  sort  of  action  we  must  go  on  to 
create  a  corresponding  sense  of  responsibility  for  that 
outcome. 

The  popular  systems  of  ethics  are  wholly  inadequate, 
and  all  thinking  persons  are  coming  to  see  that  those 
traits  of  decency  in  the  obvious  relations  of  life  that  we 
have  been  accustomed  to  regard  as  morality  are  in  great 
part  of  secondary  importance.  Many  of  them  are  of 
somewhat  the  same  character  as  John  Woolman's  refusal 
to  wear  dyed  hats — we  wonder  that  people  do  not  see 
something  more  important  to  exercise  their  consciences 
upon.  When  tlie  larger  movements  of  life  were  subcon- 
scious and   the  good   and   ill   flowing  from    them  were 

*  This  line  of  thought  is  developed  by  Professoi  E.  A.  Ross  in  his 
book,  Sin  and  Society. 

413 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

ascribed  to  an  inscrutable  providence,  morality  could  not 
be  concerned  with  them;  but  the  more  we  understand  them 
the  more  they  must  appear  the  chief  field  for  its  activity. 

We  still  have  to  do  with  obvious  wrong — the  drunkard, 
the  housebreaker,  the  murderer,  and  the  like — but  these 
simple  offences  are  easy  to  deal  with,  comparatively,  as 
being  evident  and  indubitable,  so  that  all  normal  people 
condemn  them.  No  great  ability  or  organization  up- 
holds them;  they  are  like  the  outbreaks  of  savages  or  chil- 
dren in  that  they  do  not  constitute  a  formidable  menace 
to  society.  And,  moreover,  we  are  coming  to  see  that  they 
are  most  effectually  dealt  with  by  indirect  and  preventive 
methods. 

The  more  dangerous  immorality  is,  of  course,  that  which 
makes  use  of  the  latest  engines  of  politics  or  commerce 
to  injure  the  community.  Wrong-doers  of  this  kind  are 
usually  decent  and  kindly  in  daily  walk  and  conver- 
sation, as  well  as  supporters  of  the  church  and  other  re- 
spectable institutions.  For  the  most  part  they  are  not 
even  hypocrites,  but  men  of  a  dead  and  conventional 
virtue,  not  awake  to  the  real  meaning  of  what  they  are 
and  do.  A  larger  morality  requires  that  they  should  be 
waked  up,  that  a  public  conscience,  based  on  knowledge, 
should  judge  things  by  their  true  results,  and  should  know 
how  to  make  its  judgments  effectual. 

Moreover,  this  is  not  a  matter  merely  of  the  bad  men 
whom  we  read  about  in  the  newspapers,  but  one  of  per- 
sonal guilt  in  all  of  us.  It  is  my  observation  that  the  same 
wrongs  which  are  held  up  to  execration  in  the  magazines 
are  present,  under  appropriate  forms,  among  teachers, 
lawyers,  ministers,  reputable  tradesmen,  and  others  who 

414 


SOME  PHASES  OF  THE  LARGER  WILL 

come  under  my  immediate  notice.  We  are  all  in  it:  the 
narrow  principles  are  much  the  same,  the  differences  being 
largely  in  the  scale  of  operations,  in  being  or  not  being 
found  out,  in  more  or  less  timidity  in  taking  risks,  and  so  on. 

A  somewhat  similar  problem  is  that  of  energizing  indi- 
rect service.  The  groups  we  serve — the  nation,  the  educa- 
tional institution,  the  oppressed  class,  for  instance — have 
come  to  be  so  vast,  and  often  so  remote  from  the  eye,  that 
even  the  ingenuity  of  the  newspaper  and  magazine  press 
can  hardly  make  them  alive  for  us  and  draw  our  hearts 
and  our  money  in  their  direction.  The  *'we'*  does  not 
live  in  face-to-face  contact,  and  though  photo-engravings 
and  stereopticons  and  exhibitions  and  vivid  writing  are 
a  marvelous  substitute,  they  are  often  inadequate,  so  that 
we  do  not  feel  the  cogency  of  the  common  interest  so  im- 
mediately as  did  the  men  of  the  clans.  **  Civilization," 
says  Professor  Simon  Patten,  "spares  us  more  and  more 
the  sight  of  anguish,  and  our  imaginations  must  be  cor- 
respondingly sharpened  to  see  in  the  check-book  an  agent 
as  spiritual  and  poetic  as  the  grime  and  blood-stain  of  min- 
istering hands."  *  How  far  this  may  come  to  pass  it  is  hard 
to  say :  for  myself,  I  do  not  find  it  easy  to  write  checks  for 
objects  that  are  not  made  real  to  me  by  some  sort  of  per- 
sonal contact.  No  doubt,  however,  our  growing  system 
of  voluntary  institutions — churches,  philanthropic  soci- 
eties, fraternal  orders,  labor  unions  and  the  like — are 
training  us  in  the  habit  of  expressing  ourselves  through  the 
check-book  and  other  indirect  agents. 

I  expect,  however,  that  the  best  results  will  flow  not 
*  The  New  Basis  of  Civilization,  61. 
415 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

merely  from  an  intelligent  general  benevolence  that  writes 
checks  for  all  sorts  of  good  causes,  but  from  a  kind  of 
specialization  in  well-doing,  that  will  enable  one  by  fa- 
miliarity to  see  through  the  tangle  of  relations  at  a  par- 
ticular point  and  act  in  the  view  of  truth.  In  philan- 
thropy, for  instance,  an  increasing  number  of  men  and 
women  of  wealth  and  ability  will  devote  not  only  their 
checks  but  trained  thought  and  personal  exertion  to  some 
particular  sort  of  work  which  takes  hold  of  their  interest — 
to  the  welfare  of  dependent  children,  of  the  blind,  and  so 
on — making  this  their  business,  giving  it  the  same  close  and 
eager  attention  they  would  any  other  business,  and  so  com- 
ing to  understand  it  through  and  through.  These,  along 
with  salaried  workers,  will  be  the  leaders  in  each  special 
line,  and  will  draw  after  them  the  less  personal  support 
of  those  who  have  confidence  in  them;  but  people  will 
never  send  much  of  their  treasure  where  their  heart  does 
not  go  first.  Every  city  and  neighborhood  has  its  urgent 
social  needs  which  the  resident  may  study  and  devote  him- 
self to  with  much  better  results  to  the  world  and  to  his 
own  character  than  if  he  limits  himself  to  the  writing  of 
checks.  And  for  that  matter  every  occupation — as  law, 
medicine,  teaching  and  the  various  sorts  of  business  and 
hand-labor — has  its  own  philanthropies  and  reforms  into 
which  one  may  put  all  the  devotion  he  is  capable  of.  If 
each  of  us  chooses  some  disinterested  form  of  public  ser- 
vice and  puts  himself  thoroughly  into  it,  things  will  go 
very  well. 

Another  tendency  involved  in  the  rise  of  public  will  is 
that  toward  a  greater  simplicity  and  flexibility  of  structure 

416 


SOME  PHASES  OF  THE  LARGER  WILL 

in  every  province  of  life:  principles  are  taking  the  place 
of  formulas. 

In  the  early  history  of  a  science  the  body  of  knowledge 
consists  of  a  mass  of  ill-understood  and  ill-related  obser- 
vations, speculations  and  fancies,  which  the  disciple  takes 
on  the  authority  of  the  master:  but  as  principles  are  dis- 
covered this  incoherent  structure  falls  to  pieces,  and  is 
replaced  by  a  course  of  study  based  on  experiment  and 
inference.  So  in  the  early  growth  of  every  institution  the 
t'-uth  that  it  embodies  is  not  perceived  or  expressed  in  sim- 
plicity, but  obscurely  incarnated  in  custom  and  formula. 
The  perception  of  principles  does  not  do  away  with  the 
mechanism,  but  tends  to  make  it  simple,  flexible,  human, 
definitely  serving  a  conscious  purpose  and  quick  to  stand 
or  fall  according  to  its  success.  Under  the  old  system 
everything  is  preserved,  because  men  do  not  know  just 
where  the  virtue  resides;  under  the  new  the  essential  is 
kept  and  the  rest  thrown  away. 

Or  we  may  say  that  the  change  is  like  the  substitution 
of  an  alphabet  for  picture  writing,  with  the  result  that 
language  becomes  at  the  same  time  more  complex  in  its 
structure  and  simpler  in  its  elements.  When  once  it  is 
discovered  that  all  speech  may  be  reduced  to  a  few  ele- 
mentary sounds  the  symbols  of  these,  being  sufficient  to 
express  all  possible  words,  are  more  efficient  and  less  cum- 
bersome than  the  many  characters  that  were  used  before. 

The  method  of  this  change  is  that  struggle  for  existence 
among  ideas  which  is  implied  in  the  wide  and  free  inter- 
course of  modern  life.  In  this  only  the  vital,  human  and 
indispensable  can  survive,  and  truth  is  ever  casting  off 
superfluity  and  working  itself  down  to  first  principles. 

417 


SOCIAL  ORGANIZATION 

We  have  remarked  this  in  the  case  of  religion,  and  it  would 
be  easy  to  find  the  same  process  at  work  in  other  traditions. 
The  modern  world,  then,  in  spite  of  its  complexity, 
may  become  fundamentally  simpler,  more  consistent  and 
reasonable.  Apparently  formalism  can  never  more  be 
an  accepted  and  justified  condition,  any  more  than  reason 
can  be  exchanged  for  the  blind  instinct  of  the  lower  ani- 
mals. It  will  exist  wherever  thought  and  feeling  are  inade- 
quate to  create  a  will — as  is  much  the  case  at  present — 
but  people  will  not  be  content  with  it  as  in  the  past. 
There  will  be  creeds,  but  they  will  aflSrm  no  more  than  is 
really  helpful  to  believe,  ritual,  but  only  what  is  beautiful 
or  edifying;  everything  must  justify  itself  by  function. 

Public  will,  like  individual  will,  has  the  purpose  of 
effecting  an  adaptation  to  conditions  that  is  rational  and 
economical  instead  of  haphazard  and  wasteful.  In  general 
it  should  greatly  diminish,  though  it  can  hardly  obviate, 
the  cost  of  social  change.  In  commerce,  for  instance,  it 
has  already  rendered  crises  less  sudden  and  destructive 
— in  spite  of  the  enormous  scale  of  modern  transactions 
— and  the  time  should  not  be  very  far  away  when  trouble 
of  this  sort  will  be  so  foreseen  and  discounted  and  so  pro- 
vided against  by  various  sorts  of  insurance  as  to  do  but 
little  damage.  In  the  same  way  the  vast  problem  of  pov- 
erty, and  of  the  degeneracy  that  springs  from  it,  can  be 
met  and  in  great  part  conquered  by  a  long-sighted  phi- 
lanthropy and  education.  In  religion  there  is  apparently 
no  more  need  of  that  calamitous  overthrow  of  the  founda- 
tions of  belief  from  which  many  suffered  in  the  passing 
f^eneration.     In  the  state  violent  revolution  seems  likely 

418 


SOME  PHASES  OF  THE  LARGER  WILL 

to  disappear  as  fast  as  democracy  is  organized ;  while  in 
international  relations  it  will  be  strange  if  we  do  not  see 
a  rapid  diminution  of  war.  In  all  these  matters,  and  in 
many  others,  social  costs  are  capable  of  being  foreseen 
and  provided  against  by  rational  measures  expressing  an 
enlightened  public  will. 

The  guiding  force  back  of  public  will,  now  as  ever,  is 
of  course  human  nature  itself  in  its  more  enduring  char- 
acteristics, those  which  find  expression  in  primary  groups 
and  are  little  affected  by  institutional  changes.  This 
nature,  familiar  yet  inscrutable,  is  apparently  in  a  posi- 
tion to  work  itself  out  more  adequately  than  at  any  time 
in  the  past. 


STUDY  QUESTIONS 

Although  Social  Organization  is  primarily  a  book  for 
the  general  reader  it  has  come  to  be  rather  widely  used 
as  a  text-book,  and  the  author,  judging  from  his  own  ex- 
perience as  a  teacher,  has  thought  that  a  series  of  printed 
questions  would  be  useful  in  the  study  of  it.  These  ques- 
tions do  not  cover  the  whole  ground  and  are  by  no  means 
intended  to  take  the  place  of  other  methods  of  study, 
but  rather  to  aid  in  defining  and  emphasizing  the  more 
essential  principles.  The  student  should  never  be  con- 
tent until  he  can  give  with  every  answer  illustrations 
drawn  from  his  own  experience:  there  is  no  other  way  of 
understanding  this  subject. 

Original  papers,  based  on  observation,  and  treating  some 
practical  question  from  a  sociological  standpoint,  should 
be  prepared  in  connection  with  the  study. 

The  two  opening  chapters  on  Social  and  Individual  As- 
pects of  Mind  are  rather  difficult  for  students  with  no  pre- 
vious knowledge  of  social  psychology,  and  some  may  find 
it  better  to  postpone  a  thorough  study  of  them  to  the  end 
of  the  book.  They  sum  up,  in  a  way,  the  conception  of 
the  "socius,"  that  is,  of  the  relation  of  the  individual  to 
society,  developed  in  the  writer's  Human  Nature  and  the 
Social  Order. 

421 


STUDY   QUESTIONS 

A.    SoaAL  AND  Individual  Aspects  of  Mind 
Chaps.  I-II 

1.  In  what  sense  is  the  mind  of  society,  or  of  any  social  group,  a 
unit?     Give  original  illustrations. 

2.  "Social  consciousness  and  self-consciousness  are  inseparable.'* 
Explain  this  and  illustrate  it  from  your  own  experience. 

3.  Describe  the  process  by  which  the  two  phases  of  conscious- 
ness develop  in  a  child's  mind. 

4.  Explain  "sympathetic  introspection"  and  give  original  illus- 
trations. 

5.  Explain  and  illustrate  the  three  aspects  of  consciousness 
mentioned  at  the  end  of  Chap.  I,  showing  that  they  are  phases  of 
a  single  whole. 

6.  Discuss  the  "organic  view  of  mind"  as  to  whether  it  should 
have  a  good  moral  effect,  using  your  own  illustrations. 

7.  Explain  and  illustrate  "Real  reform  must  be  sympathetic." 

8.  Discuss  the  place  of  praise  and  blame,  reward  and  punish- 
ment, in  an  organic  view  of  social  life. 

9.  What  sort  of  reforms  in  the  treatment  of  crime  does  the  or- 
ganic view  suggest  to  you? 

10.  How  does  the  organic  view  affect  personal  responsibility? 
When  may  emphasis  on  the  latter  be  inexpedient? 

11.  Just  why  does  the  organic  view  call  for  more  social  knowl- 
edge? 

12.  What  does  sociology  lead  us  to  see  in  history?    Pages  21-22. 

B.    Primary  Groups 
Chaps.  III-V 

1.  Explain  the  psychological  nature  of  a  primary  group,  illus- 
trating from  your  observation. 

2.  What  harm  would  it  do  one  to  grow  up  without  experience  of 
primary  groups  outside  the  family? 

3.  What  difference  have  you  noticed  between  boys  and  girls  as 
to  the  kind  of  primary  groups  they  form? 

4.  When  we  say  that  "human  nature  does  not  change,"  just 
what  do  we  mean  and  what  evidence  is  there  that  the  statement  is 
true? 

422 


STUDY   QUESTIONS 

5.  Discuss  the  statement  "Human  nature  is  a  group  nature." 

6.  What  is  meant  by  saying  that  the  ideal  of  moral  unity  is  the 
mother  of  social  ideals?     Pages  33-35. 

7.  Can  the  "selfishness  of  human  nature"  be  reconciled  with 
the  ideal  of  moral  unity?     Pages  35-38. 

8.  Show  just  how  group  play  tends  to  make  orderly  and  public- 
spirited  citizens. 

9.  How  far  and  just  how  do  you  think  that  play-groups  should 
be  recognized  or  fostered  in  the  public  schools? 

10.  Do  you  think  equality  is  a  primary  ideal?  If  so,  in  just 
what  sense? 

11.  In  what  ways  are  modern  conditions  harmful  with  respect 
to  primary  groups? 

12.  What  activities  are  there  in  your  home  locality  looking  to  a 
betterment  of  primary  groups? 

13.  What  are  the  chief  reasons  why  kindness  is  not  a  ruling  ideal 
in  business?     Pages  51-57. 

14.  Just  how  are  Democracy  and  Christianity  related  to  primary 
ideals? 

C.    Communication 
Chaps.  VI-X 

1.  What  was  the  effect  of  communication  upon  Hellen  Keller, 
and  why?     Page  62/. 

2.  Compare  what  you  might  learn  about  a  person  (1)  by  seeing 
him  frequently  without  exchanging  words,  and  (2)  by  an  intimate 
correspondence  without  seeing  him. 

3.  Show  just  how  a  word  enables  us  to  form  ideas  that  we  could 
not  otherwise  have. 

4.  What  is  meant  by  saying  that  language  economizes  ex- 
perience? 

5.  Show  that  in  learning  a  word  we  are  taught  by  our  remote 
ancestors. 

6.  What  ground  is  there  for  holding  that  speech  is  as  old  as 
human  nature? 

7.  Show  by  original  illustrations  what  writing  does  for  society. 

8.  Do  the  same  for  printing. 

9.  Take  some  non-literary  art  in  which  you  are  interested  and 
discuss  it  in  relation  to  communication. 

423 


STUDY   QUESTIONS 

10.  Describe  the  character  of  modern  communication  and  its 
general  effect  upon  mental  life. 

11.  What  was  the  basis  of  the  old  doctrine  that  democracy  must 
be  confined  to  cities,  and  how  has  modern  communication  affected 
the  question? 

12.  Answer  carefully  the  question  whether  a  university  increases 
or  diminishes  the  individuality  of  a  man  who  comes  from  a  small 
town, 

13.  What  can  be  said  pro  and  con  regarding  the  "dead-level" 
theory?     Pages  92,  159. 

14.  What  views  have  you  formed  from  your  own  experience 
regarding  superficiality  in  education?    Can  you  suggest  remedies? 

15.  Discuss  the  question,  Does  contemporary  life  overstimulate 
the  individual? 

D.    Democracy 

Chaps,  xi-xvn 

1.  Describe,  as  you  conceive  it,  the  working  of  public  con- 
sciousness in  tribal  society. 

2.  Discuss  the  part  played  by  popular  assemblies  in  tribal  society 
and  at  the  present  time. 

3.  Discuss  the  sphere  and  value  of  tradition  in  primitive  society. 

4.  Just  what  would  you  give  as  the  meaning  and  scope  of  "de- 
mocracy" in  the  modern  sense?     Pages  113-120. 

5.  Show  by  an  example  the  process  tlu-ough  which  a  true  public 
opinion  is  formed. 

6.  Explain  the  proposition  "Government  by  popular  impression 
is  not  real  democracy." 

7.  In  what  sense  may  public  opinion  be  organized  even  though 
there  is  no  majority  for  any  one  view? 

8.  What  practical  importance  is  there  in  recognizing  minorities, 
or  dissenting  individuals,  as  parts  of  public  opinion? 

9.  Discuss  the  view  which  looks  upon  public  opinion  as  an 
average  of  individual  minds. 

10.  Under  what  conditions  will  a  group  be  likely  to  function 
through  its  best  members?     Through  its  worst?     Give  examples. 

11.  Discuss  the  question  how  many  and  what  kind  of  matters 
general  public  opinion  can  deal  with. 

424 


STUDY   QUESTIONS 

12.  Show  by  example  in  just  what  ways  the  opinion  of  special 
groups  is  controlled  by  general  public  opinion. 

13.  Give  and  defend  your  opinion  on  the  question,  Do  the  people 
rule  in  American  politics? 

14.  Mention  the  strongest  arguments  you  know  against  de- 
mocracy, and  answer  them. 

15.  Discuss  the  question  what  masses  (as  distinguished  from 
leaders)  contribute  to  democracy. 

16.  Discuss  the  question  whether  the  masses  or  the  well-to-do 
classes  are  more  likely  to  be  right  on  public  questions. 

17.  What  may  be  said  for  the  view  that  the  masses  of  foreign 
immigrants  are  likely  to  raise  the  ideals  of  American  democracy? 

18.  What  limits  are  there  to  the  practicability  of  immediate 
popular  rule,  as  by  referendum,  initiative  and  recall?     Page  129. 

19.  Under  what  circumstances  might  the  extension  of  rule  by 
popular  vote  mean  less  democracy  rather  than  more? 

20.  Discuss  the  view  that  democracy  tends  to  be  the  rule  of  an 
irresponsible  "crowd." 

21.  Explain  any  views  regarding  public  opinion  you  have  been 
led  to  form  by  experience  in  college  affairs. 

22.  Discuss  (1)  democracy  and  (2)  transition  as  possible  causes 
of  inferior  achievement.     Page  158  ff. 

23.  Explain  "individuahsm  may  not  be  favorable  to  the  pro- 
duction of  distinguished  individuality." 

24.  On  the  supposition  that  nature  intended  you  for  a  poet  or 
artist,  discuss  the  influence  of  the  conditions  under  which  you  were 
brought  up. 

25.  Just  what  do  you  understand  by  "culture  groups"  in 
relation  to  higher  intellectual  achievement?  In  what  respect, 
if  any,  do  you  think  the  university  deficient  from  this  point 
of  view? 

26.  What  is  meant  by  "poverty  of  types"  in  connection  with 
American  life?     Page  167. 

27.  What  conditions,  specially  characteristic  of  American  life, 
are  favorable  or  unfavorable  to  high  intellectual  achievement? 
Pages  167-176. 

28.  What  is  meant  by  calling  ours  an  "age  of  diffusion"? 
Page  174/. 

29.  Mention  some  tendencies  of  sentiment  that  are  character- 
istic of  modern  life  and  show  why.     Pages  177-188. 

425 


STUDY   QUESTIONS 

30.  "The  world  was  never  so  Christian  in  feeling."  In  just 
what  sense  is  this  true  and  how  is  the  matter  related  to  primary 
ideals,  communication  and  democracy? 

31.  What  contemporary  conditions  are  favorable  and  what  hos- 
tile to  the  growth  of  brotherhood?  Can  you  show  that  these  op- 
posing conditions  have  a  common  source? 

E.    Social  Classes 
Chaps.  XVIII-XXVII 

1.  Explain  the  conditions  in  human  nature  tending  to  produce 
inheritance  classes  or  castes.  What  tests  would  you  apply  to  dis- 
cover whether  caste  exists?     Page  211^. 

2.  What  special  conditions  of  society  (apart  from  race)  favor  the 
growth  of  caste,  and  why?     Pages  220-228. 

3.  Give  your  view  regarding  the  maintenance  of  the  color  line 
at  the  south,  with  reasons. 

4.  Discuss  the  question  whether  immigration  is  likely  to  give 
rise  to  caste  in  the  United  States. 

5.  Leaving  aside  race  and  immigration  do  you  think  the  caste 
principle  likely  to  gain  or  lose  in  the  United  States,  and  why? 

6.  In  what  sense  is  it  true  that  more  class-consciousness  is  de- 
sirable in  our  society?    Pages  240-245. 

7.  Explain  what  open  classes  are,  under  what  conditions  they 
can  flourish,  of  what  advantage  they  are  to  society  and  what  is 
meant  by  their  overlapping. 

8.  In  what  sense  and  in  what  degree  do  you  think  classes  actu- 
ally exist  in  the  United  States? 

9.  What  is  meant  by  saying  that  from  the  point  of  view  of 
classes  there  are  two  kinds  of  freedom?     Pages  245-247. 

10.  To  what  extent  do  you  think  we  are  ruled  by  a  capitalist 
class?     What  are  the  methods  through  which  tliis  rule  is  exercised? 

11.  Discuss,  jpro  and  con,  the  question  whether  capitalist  as- 
cendency is  beneficial. 

12.  What  do  you  think  of  the  view  that  ambitious  young  men 
are  a  support  to  the  ruling  class? 

13.  Discuss  the  comparative  power  and  security  of  an  upper 
class  (1)  under  a  caste  system,  (2)  under  open  classes. 

14.  What  safeguards  are  there  against  violent  revolution  by  a 
lower  economic  class? 

426 


STUDY   QUESTIONS 

15.  Discuss  the  question  whether  democracy  favors  the  ascend- 
ency of  wealth,  or  otherwise. 

16.  Why  do  we  have  democracy  in  poHtics  but  not  in  industry? 
What  is  the  outlook  in  this  regard? 

17.  What,  from  a  public  standpoint,  are  the  advantages  and 
disadvantages  of  the  organization  of  labor? 

18.  Discuss  the  social  condition  of  unorganized  labor  and  what 
can  be  done  to  better  it. 

19.  In  what  sense  are  the  poor  a  class;   in  what  sense  not? 

20.  Why  is  the  question  whether  poverty  is  due  to  social  or  per- 
sonal causes  fallacious? 

21.  Discuss  the  argument:  The  poor  are  vicious  or  incompetent, 
hence  their  poverty  is  their  own  fault. 

22.  What  is  the  precise  meaning  of  **the  unfit"  in  relation  to 
biological  evolution,  and  how  far  is  it  applicable  to  the  poor?  How 
does  the  answer  bear  on  questions  of  social  reform? 

23.  Discuss  the  question  who  is  to  blame  for  poverty. 

24.  What  is  meant  by  saying  that  the  self-respecting  poor  are 
defenders  of  the  general  welfare? 

25.  Discuss,  pro  and  con,  the  question  whether  class  hostility  is 
likely  to  increase. 

F.    Institutions 
Chaps.  XXVIII-XXXIII 

1.  Explain  the  nature  and  origin  of  institutions,  illustrating  from 
student  life. 

2.  Explain  the  statement  (Page  316)  that  in  the  development 
of  the  child  we  have  to  do  with  the  interaction  of  two  types. 

3.  Show,  with  illustrations  from  your  experience,  how  institu- 
tions and  personality  are  related.     How  may  they  be  opposed? 

4.  Discuss  the  question  whether  the  moral  standards  of  institu- 
tions are  necessarily  lower  than  those  of  persons. 

5.  "Innovation  or  the  opposite  may  be  a  public  habit."  Ex- 
plain and  illustrate  this  statement.     Pages  328,  329. 

6.  How  does  the  "solidarity"  of  America  differ  from  that  of 
France?     Pages  330-335. 

7.  Show  the  difference  between  modern  and  mediaeval  society 
as  regards  tradition  and  convention. 

8.  Explain  formalism  and  give  illustrations  from  your  observa- 
tion. 

427 


STUDY   QUESTIONS 

9.  Explain  disorganization,  giving  illustrations  and  showing  its 
relation  to  formalism. 

10.  To  what  extent,  in  your  opinion,  is  this  a  time  of  disorgan- 
ization?    Explain  your  view  fully. 

11.  Explain  what  is  meant  by  the  "new  regime  in  the  family," 
and  contrast  with  it  the  old  regime. 

12.  How  is  the  present  state  of  the  family  related  to  changes  in 
industry  and  communication? 

13.  Discuss  the  decline  in  the  birth-rate  and  the  laxity  of  family 
discipline  as  related  to  the  growth  of  freedom  and  individuality. 

14.  What  is  your  view  of  the  present  social  status  of  women  as 
related  to  disorganization  in  society? 

15.  Explain  the  personal  and  institutional  causes  tending  to  in- 
crease divorce. 

16.  How  would  you  answer  the  question.  Is  the  family  degen- 
erating? 

17.  What  would  you  give  as  the  basis,  in  human  nature,  of  religion? 

18.  Just  what  do  you  understand  by  religious  institutions? 
Show  that  they  must  share  the  nature  and  changes  of  other  insti- 
tutions contemporary  with  them. 

19.  Mention  and  illustrate  the  chief  dangers  inherent  in  religious 
institutions. 

20.  Do  you  think  the  Christian  church  "institutionized"?  If 
so,  in  just  what  respects? 

21.  How  far  do  you  think  Christianity  and  the  church  are  to  be 
regarded  as  identical,  how  far  as  separate? 

22.  What  do  you  regard  as  the  main  lines  of  progress  for  the 
church? 

23.  In  what  sense  can  industry  be  said  to  be  disorganized? 
Formalized? 

24.  Answer  the  same  questions  as  under  23  regarding  education. 

25.  In  what  sense  are  the  fine  arts  disorganized  in  our  time? 

G.    PuBUC  Will 
Chaps.  XXXIV-XXXXI 

1.  Explain  what  is  meant  by  public  will  and  its  relation  to  in- 
dividual will. 

2.  How  far  do  you  think  progress  is  a  matter  of  intention,  how 
far  unconscious?     What  change  is  taking  place  in  this  regard? 

428 


STUDY   QUESTIONS 

3.  Discuss  the  question  whether  the  most  serious  social  wrongs 
are  intentional.     If  not,  is  any  one  to  blame?    Pages  15,  400,  401. 

4.  What,  in  general,  are  the  advantages  and  disadvantages  of 
the  government  (as  compared  with  private  enterprise)  in  any  under- 
taking?    What  sort  of  undertakings  are  best  suited  to  government? 

5.  What  is  meant  by  "the  growing  efficiency  of  the  intellectual 
and  moral  processes  as  a  whole"?     Page  411. 

6.  In  just  what  sense,  and  why,  do  we  need  a  new  kind  of  moral- 
ity? 

7.  Explain  the  view  that  a  new  kind  of  institutions  is  developing, 
characterized  by  principles  rather  than  formulas.  Can  you  give 
illustrations? 

8.  Explain  "organic  idealism."  To  what  ideas  and  methods  is 
it  opposed?     Page  412. 

9.  What  is  "the  cost  of  social  change"  and  how  can  public 
will  diminish  it? 


INDEX 


Abbott,  Lyman,  187. 

Achilles,  110. 

Addams,  Jane,  25,  137,  190,  191,  244, 
350,  385. 

Agreement,  not  essential  to  public 
opinion,  122. 

Alphabet,  417. 

Amenomori,  331. 

Anarchism,  196;   in  the  church,  374. 

Anarchy  and  spoliation,  fear  of, 
276. 

Anderson,  W.  L.,  83. 

Ann  Arbor,  school  carnival  in,  408. 

Architecture,  as  communication,  79, 
172;  disorganization  in,  390  ff. 

Aristocracy,  hereditary,  210,  257, 
282  f. 

Army,  German,  324;   American,  325. 

Art,  visible  society  a  work  of,  21; 
collective  judgments  on,  125;  in 
relation  to  democracy,  157  ff. ; 
spirit  of,  244  f.;  321,  disorganiza- 
tion in,  390  ff. 

Arts,  non-verbal,  as  communica- 
tion, 77  ff. 

Assemblage,  public,  109. 

Athletic  sports,  163,  199. 

Attenuation  of  sentiment,  178. 

Augustine,  374. 

Austen,  Jane,  102. 

Autocratic  control  of  industry,  262  ff. 

Average-theory  of  group  action, 
123  ff. 

Bacon,  Francis,  76,  318. 
Bagehot,  W.,  178. 
Baring-Gould,  325. 
Biological  type,  the,  315  f. 
Birth-rate,  decline  of,  358  ff. 
Blame,  15  ff,  201  ff. 
Bourget,  Paul,  160,  171. 
Brooks,  John  G.,  45. 
Brotherhood,  sentiment  of,  189  ff. 
Browne,  Sir  T.,  70,  153. 
Brownell,  W.  C,  161,  166,  321.  332  ff. 
Bryce,  James,  85,  136,  182,  276,  280, 
369.  381. 


Buck,  Winifred,  43. 
Burckhardt,  354. 
Burke,  330. 
Burne-Jones,  168. 
Burroughs,  John,  93. 

Camp-fire,  Assembly  around,  109  f. 

Carlyle,  167,  323. 

Carnegie,  A.,  views  of  on  wealth, 
281. 

Capitalist  class,  ascendency  of,  256  ff. 

Caste,  209  ff. 

Change,  social,  in  relation  to  caste, 
217,  225,  231. 

Check-book,  in  social  reform,  415  f. 

Chicago,  212;  recreation  centres  in, 
408. 

Child,  the,  his  relation  to  the  world, 
315  ff. 

Children,  development  of  social  con- 
sciousness in,  7  ff.,  72;  reforms  in 
the  interest  of,  318  f.;  "spoiled," 
358  ff. 

China,  lack  of  communication  in, 
86. 

Chinese,  186,  198. 

Chivalry,  224. 

Choice,  excessive,  172;  versus  mech- 
anism, 323;  spirit  of,  359  ff., 
365  ff. 

Christianity,  52,  73,  136,  166,  203  ff., 
253.  304,  373  ff. 

Church,  the,  204,  322,  342,  347,  370; 
disorganization  in,  372  fT. 

City  life.  94,  178  f.,  409. 

Class  animosity,  301  ff. 

Class  atmosphere,  272. 

Class-consciousness,  240  ff.,  275, 
284  ff.,  305. 

Class  struggle,  the,  241,  277,  286. 

Classes,  social,  179  f.,  209-309;  open, 
239  ff.;  open,  in  relation  to  wealth, 
248  ff. ;  capitalist,  256  ff. ;  organi- 
zation of  the  ill-paid,  284  ff.;  hos- 
tile feeling  between,  301. 

Classical  culture,  388  f. 

Clergymen,  facial  expression  of,  67. 


431 


INDEX 


;^ommercialism,  167;  in  relation  to 
art,  173  f.,   261,  346,  383  ff. 

Commons,  J.  R.,  286. 

Communication,  54;  significance  of, 
61  ff.;  growth  of,  66  ff.;  modern, 
a  cause  of  enlargement  and  ani- 
mation, 80  ff. ;  modern,  in  relation 
to  individuality,  91  ff. ;  in  relation 
to  superficiality  and  strain,  98  ff.; 
in  relation  to  crowds,  151,  180,  191; 
in  realtion  to  caste,  226  f.,  338  t. 

Community  ideal,  the,  33  ff.,  52,  305. 
See  also  We-feeling  and  Moral 
unity. 

Compensation,  principle  of,  in  social 
organization,  55  fT.,  115,  118. 

Competition,  35,  56,  158,  199  fT., 
210,  226  f.,  235,  239  f.,  244,  323. 
See  also  Survival  of  the  fittest. 

Comte,  237. 

Conflict,     See  Competition. 

Confusion,  in  relation  to  art  and  lit- 
erature, 162  ff.;  to  sentiment,  193. 
See  also  Disorganization. 

Conquest,  a  cause  of  caste,  221. 

Conscience,  public,  387. 

Consciousness,  growth  of  in  history, 
107  ff. 

Consciousness,  public,  10  ff.,  82, 
411  ff. 

Consciousness,  social,  4  ff.;  devel- 
opment of  in  children,  7  ff.,  71, 
350. 

Conservatism,  327  ff. 

Constitution  of  the  United  States, 
314,  398. 

Convention  and  tradition,  335  ff. 

Conventionalism,  339  ff. 

Cornish,  F.  W.,  224. 

Cost  of  change,  418  f. 

Country  life,  effects  of,  93  f.,  178  f. 

Courage,  187. 

Creeds,  375  ff.,  418. 

Crime,  202  f. 

Crises,  commercial,  418. 

Crowd  excitement,  in  relation  to  de- 
mocracy, 149  ff. 

Crowds,  psychology  of,  149  ff. 

Cuba,  322. 

Culture  groups  and  types,  163  ff., 
243,  388  f. 

Dante,  36,  70,  165,  173,  190,  388. 
Darwin,  29,  67,  189,  295,  321. 
Dead-level  theory,  93,  159  ff. 
Declaration    of    Independence,    48, 
134. 


Dellenbaugh,  F.  S.,  luo. 

Demand,  economic,  often  degrading, 
141. 

Democracy,  among  children,  45; 
source  of  its  ideals,  51;  dependent 
upon  printing,  75;  relation  to 
modern  communication,  85  ff.;  an 
inadequate  name,  86;  as  mental 
organization,  105-205;  a  discipline 
in  self-control,  152;  and  distinc- 
tion, 157  ff. ;  in  relation  to  wealth, 
278  ff.;  to  childhood,  318,  329. 
334,  398. 

Descartes,  5  ff. 

Determinism,  moral  value  of,  19  f. 

De  Tocqueville,  Alexis,  27,  92,  99, 
101,  116,  159,  172,  175,  235,  329, 
398. 

Devine,  E.  T.,  297. 

Dialects,  revival  of,  96. 

Diffusion,  a  result  of  modern  com- 
munication, 81;  possibilities  of, 
87;  not  opposed  to  selection,  88; 
zeal  for,  174;   the  age  of,  175. 

Dill,  Samuel,  114. 

Discussion.     See  Opinion. 

Disorganization,  spiritual,  162  ff., 
347  ff.;  in  the  family,  356  ff.;  in 
the  church,  372  ff.;  in  industry, 
383  ff.;  in  education  and  culture, 
386  ff.;   in  fine  art,  389  ff. 

Distinction,  apt  to  cause  isolation, 
138  f.;  in  relation  to  democracy 
157  ff. 

Divorce,  365  ff. 

Domestic  service,  367. 

Donovan,  J.,  109. 

Dorsey,  J.  O.,  111. 

Dress,  305. 

Drink,  293  f. 

Economic  Interpretation  of  His- 
tory, 255. 

Economic  system,  confusion  in,  383. 

Education,  48,  87.  117,  227,  234; 
formalism  in,  345  f.,  349;  of  wom- 
en, 363  ff.;  disorganization  in, 
386  ff.;    public,  406. 

Efficiency,  social,  depends  upon  free- 
dom, 234  f. 

Ellis,  H.,  364. 

Emerson,  125, 167, 176,  246,  342,  385. 

Emulation,  307. 

Energy,  persistence  of,  328. 

England,  274,  281,  301,  302,  340, 
358,  397  f. 

Ennui,  99. 


432 


INDEX 


Knvironmont,    214   f.,    230,    291    IT., 

316  f. 
Equality,  180.  257.  301  f. 
Ethics.     See  Morality. 
Eugenics,  296. 

Facial  Expression,  66  f. 

Family.  10  f.;    as  a  primary  group, 

24;   as  a  source  of  primary  ideals, 

24,    48,     52;    traditional     careers 

in,  238  f . ;  disorganization  in,  356  ff. 
Fashion,  336  ff. 
Fellowship.  174  f.,  242  ff. 
Ferguson,  on  architecture,  391. 
Feudal  system,  223  ff. 
Formalism,  56,  198,  342  ff.,  376  ff., 

418. 
Fort  Sumter,  attack  on,  154. 
France,   155,   166,  275,  330,  331  ff., 

398,  408. 
Frederick  the  Great,  86. 
Freedom,  as  a  primary  ideal,  46;  two 

aspects   of  in  relation   to   classes 

245  f.;    275,  325. 
Free-will,  20. 

Galton,  Francis,  214,  317. 
"Gangs"  of  boys,  as  primary  groups, 

49. 
Garibaldi.  325. 
Genius,  348. 

Germany,  27,  248,  306,  324. 
Gesture,  66,  69. 
Gibbon,  Edward,  73,  77. 
God,    188,    196,   203,   205,   352,   353, 

354,  372,  373,  380. 
Goethe,  78,  165.  367,  401, 
Gossip,  organized,  84  f. 
Government,  as  public  will,  402  ff.; 

sphere  of,  403  ff.;    transformation 

of,  411. 
Greece,  refinement  in,  180. 
Greed  of  gain.  36,  254. 
Green,  J.  R.,  108. 
Groups,    primary,    23   ff.     See   also 

Types,  Classes  and  Institutions. 
Gummere,  F.  B.,  107,  222. 

Hamerton,  p.  G.,  140,  356,  390. 

Hartt,  R.  L.,  94. 

Haste,  170  ff. 

Heine,  95. 

Herbert,  Geo.,  287. 

Heredity  and  environment,   294  f., 

316. 
Higginson,  T.  W.,  127,  136,  282. 


History,  organic  view  of,  255, 

Holbein,  67. 

Honesty  and  policy,  184. 

Hopefulness,  187. 

Horace  (Q.  Horatius  Flaccus),  110. 

Hostile  feeling,  199  ff..  301  ff. 

House  of  Commons.  341. 

Howard,  Geo.  E„  24. 

Howells,  W.  D.,  271. 

Human  nature,  relation  to  primary 
groups,  28  ff. ;  dependent  upon 
communication.  62  f.,    419. 

Humanism  of  sentiment,  178,  180  ff. 

Huxley,  190. 

Idealism,  Organic.  412  f. 

Ideals,  primary,  32  ff.,  51  ff.,  113;  of 
groups,  x^oi.;  165  f. 

Imitation,  two  kinds  of,  336. 

Immigrants.  294.  295. 

Immigration.  169,  220  f.,  369. 

India,  caste  in.  224. 

Indians,  American,  kindness  among, 
41;    individuality  among,  110  f. 

Individual,  in  relation  to  institu- 
tions. 313  ff. 

Individualism,  in  art,  166,  243,  347 
ff.;  domestic,  357  ff.  See  also 
Disorganization. 

Individuality,  how  affected  by  mod- 
ern communication,  91  ff.;  in 
tribal  life,  110;  development  of  in 
history,  112,  116  ff.;  in  relation  to 
democracy,  160  ff.;  moral,  201  f.: 
enjoyment  of,  307;  in  harness, 
324,  332  ff. 

Inheritance  principle,  209  ff. 

Institutions,  in  relation  to  privileged 
classes.  140  f.,  186,  313-392;  and 
the  individual,  313  ff. 

Intolerance,  344. 

Introspection,  sympathetic,  7. 

Italy,  167,  185,  186,  347,  348. 

James,  Henry,  84,  171,  174. 

James,  William,  20,  138,  253. 

Japan,  328,  330. 

Jesus,  16.  203,ff.,  377. 

Jevons,  W.  S.,  407. 

Johnson,  Doctor,  93, 

Johnson,    Samuel    (the   orientalist) 

225. 
Justice,  sentiment  of,  181. 

Keller.  Helen,  62  f. 
Kempis,  Thomas  a,  137.  138c 


433 


INDEX 


Kindness,  40  ff.,  189  ff. 
Kropotkin,  P.  A.,  41,  189. 

Labor   Movement,    196,   242,    243, 

258,  276,  284  ff. 
Labor  troubles,  308. 
Lamb,  Charles,  88. 
Latin  language,  74. 
Law  students,  141. 
Lawfulness  as  a  primary  ideal,  42  ff. 
Lawyers,  269. 
Leadership,  135  f.,  402. 
LeBon,  G.,  149,  153. 
Lecky,  W.  H.  H.,  96,  144. 
Lee,  H.  C,  75. 
Lee,  Joseph,  34,  43. 
Lincoln,  76. 
Lindsey,  Judge,  39. 
Literature,  in  relation  to  democracy, 

157  ff.;    growth  of  refinement  in, 

179;    disorganization  in,  390;    of 

social  knowledge,  411  f. 
Lloyd,  A.  H.,  319. 
Lloyd,  H.  D.,  140,  263,  264. 
Longinus,  115. 
Lowell,  J.  R..  101,  378. 
Loyalty,  38  f.,  182. 
Luther,  75. 
Luxury,  306,  359. 

Macaulay,  on  democracy,  143  f. 

Macchiavelli,  184. 

Mackenzie,  J.  S.,  92. 

Maladjustment,  as  a  cause  of  pov- 
erty, 293  f. 

Malthus,  295. 

Manners,  tendency  of,  197  ff. 

Mantegna,  320. 

Manual  training,  304. 

Marriage,  282,  356  ff.  See  also 
Family. 

Masses,  in  relation  to  public  opinion, 
135  ff. 

Middle  ages,  caste  in,  222  ff.,  267. 

Might  and  right,  320. 

Milton,  76. 

Mind,  organic  view  of,  3  ff.;  demo- 
cratic, 107-207. 

Mind-cure  doctrines,  297. 

Mir,  Russian,  26. 

Mob.     See  Crowd. 

Money-value,  nature  of,  265  f. 

Montesquieu,  86,  116,  142,  261,  302. 

Moral  aspect,  of  the  organic  view  of 
mind,  13  ff.;  of  institutions,  322; 
of  public  will,  397. 


Moral  principles,  need  of  settled, 
200  f.,  307. 

Moral  unity,  33,  133,  182,  385. 

Morality,  of  group  action,  124;  spe- 
cialization in,  130;  mode  of  prog- 
ress in,  131 ;  of  captalists,  259  f. ;  in- 
ternational, 322;  the  larger,  413  ff. 

Music  as  communication,  77,  79. 

Napoleon,  184. 

Nationality,  persistence  of,  96. 

Natural  Right,  doctrine  of,  relation 
to  primary  ideals,  47  f. 

Natural  selection,  189,  294  ff. 

Nature  and  nurture,  214. 

Negro  question,  218  ff. 

Negroes,  295. 

Neighborhood,  the,  24  ff.,  49. 

Newspaper,  in  modern  communica- 
tion, 83  ff.,  151,  192  f.,  270  f.,  346. 

North  Carolina,  mountain  people  of, 
94. 

O'Brien,  R.  L.,  346. 

Omahas,  war  party  among,  110  f. 

Opinion,  public,  10  f.,  85.  108,  121  ff., 
144  f.,  307  f.,  406.  See  also  De- 
mocracy. 

Opportunity,  freedom  of,  233  ff., 
245  f.,  267  f. 

Opposition,  morality  of,  37.  See 
also  Competition. 

Organic  conception  of  society,  3  ff., 
13  ff.,  255.  See  also  table  of  con- 
tents. 

Organic  idealism,  412  f. 

Organization,  social,  3,  2a,  22.  See 
also  table  of  contents. 

Organizing  capacity,  266. 

Originality  of  masses,  135. 

Ostrogorski,  99. 

Painting,  77  ff.,  179,  389  f. 

Paralysis,  general,  103. 

Pater,  Walter,  14,  79. 

Patten.  Simon  N.,  299,  409,  415. 

Paul,  St..  on  truth,  182. 

Personality,    relation    of    to    social 

organization,  53;  to  specialization, 

130  f.;  interest  in  at  elections.  143; 

161.  214  f.     See  also  Individuality. 
Persons,  judgment  of  by  the  masses, 

142  ff. 
Philanthropy,    48,     195,    299,    355* 

416. 
Plato,  86,  125,  159. 
Play-group,  the,  24  ff.,  34  fl. 


434 


INDEX 


Politics,  rule  of  public  opinion    in, 

132  ff. 
Portraits,  old  and  new,  101  f. 
Poverty,  290  ff.,  418. 
Power,  the  deepest  of  instincts,  251; 

social  nature  of,  264  ff. 
Prestige  of  wealth,  271  f. 
Prigs,  lack  of  in  France,  333. 
Primary  groups,  23  ff. 
Primary    ideals,    32    ff.     See    also 

Ideals. 
Principles,  supplanting  formulas,  417. 
Printing,   the    basis   of   democracy, 

71  ff. 
Privilege,   apt    to    cause     isolation, 

138. 
Professional  classes,  269  f. 
Progress,    irregularity    of,     114;    a 

modern  idea,  399;  cost  of,  418. 
Public  opinion.     See  Opinion,  pub- 
lic. 
Punishment,  15  ff.,  202  f. 

Race  Question,  218  ff. 

Race-capacity,  28  f.,  44  f. 

Realism,  183  ff. 

Refinement,  tendency  toward,  179  f. 

Religion,  372  ff.  See  also  Chris- 
tianity. 

Renaissance,  179,  348. 

Resentment,  202  f. 

Responsibility,  18  ff. 

Roberts,  Lord,  348. 

Rodin,  321. 

Roman  Empire,  114  f.,  349. 

Roscommon,  Earl  of,  153. 

Ross,  E.  A.,  on  the  mob-mind,  149; 
on  the  larger  morality,  413. 

Rules  of  the  game,  43  ff.,  200,  307. 

Ruskin,  167. 

Russia,  183. 

Sargent,  101. 

Schiller,  266. 

Sculpture,  77,  339. 

Sedgwick,  H.  D.,  101  f. 

Self-consciousness,  inseparable  from 
social  consciousness,  5  ff. 

Self-expression,  the  fundamental 
need,  304,  409. 

Self-words,  a  study  of  the  early  use 
of,  8. 

Sentiment,  how  affected  by  commu- 
nication, 88;  individuality  of,  97; 
leadership  in  by  the  masses,  135 
ff.,  142  ff.;  meaning  and  trend  of. 
177  ff.;  religious,  372,  379. 


Service,  as  a  primary  ideal,  39;  spir- 
it of,  196,  260  f.;  ideal  of,  302  f.; 
indirect,  415  f. 

Sexes,  differentiation  of,  364  f. 

Sighele,  149. 

SiU,  E.  W.,  97. 

Smiles,  Samuel,  246. 

Smith,  A.  H.,  198. 

Social  consciousness.  See  Conscious- 
ness. 

Social  salvation,  380. 

Social  structure,  increasing  simplic- 
ity and  flexibility  of,  416  f. 

Socialism,  51,  196,  276  ff.,  285,  308; 
municipal,  407  ff.;  state,  409  ff., 
412. 

Sociology,  197,  389,  411. 

Solidarity,  of  classes,  276  f.;  of  na- 
tions, 330  ff. 

Spahr,  Charles,  309. 

Spain,  class  feeling  in,  301. 

Specialization,  of  opinion,  126  ff.; 
not  opposed  to  democracy,  147  f., 
in  philanthropy,  416. 

Speech,  origin  and  growth  of,  68; 
mental  and  social  functions  of, 
69  ff.,  109.  417. 

Spencer,  Herbert,  92. 

Spencer  and  Gillen,  29,  41. 

Spinoza,  19,  20. 

Strain,  98  ff.,  170  ff. 

Strike,  general,  277. 

Struggle  for  existence,  among  ideas, 
417.  See  also  Competition,  Class 
struggle.  Survival  of  the  fittest. 

Students,  university,  274. 

Sturgis,  Russell,  174. 

Suffrage,  popular,  146. 

Suggestion,  150  ff„  328. 

Suicide,  103. 

Sullivan,  Miss,  Helen  Keller's  teach- 
er, 62  f. 

Superficiality,  98  ff.,  117,  170  ff. 

SurAival  of  the  fittest,  189,  258, 
294  ff.     See  also  Competition. 

Sweating  system,  400  f. 

Symbols,  religious,  373  ff. 

Symonds,  J.  A.,  375. 

Sympathy,  as  the  basis  of  reform. 
14  f. 

Tarde,  Gabriel,  327,  329,  336. 

Tariff,  406. 

Telegraph,   effect    of   on    language, 

346. 
Tennyson,  167. 
Thackeray,  361. 


435 


INDEX 


Thoreau,  34,  164  f.,  176,  195.  249, 
253. 

Tolstoi,  167,  401. 

Tout.T.  F.,223. 

Tradition  and  convention,  335  ff. 

Traditionalism,  339  ff. 

Tranquillity,  lack  of  in  art,  390. 

Transition,  distinguished  from  de- 
mocracy, 158  f. 

Truth,  as  a  primary  ideal,  39;  senti- 
ment of.  182  ff. 

Types,  social,  22,  163,  340. 

Unconscious     Social    Relations, 

4,  112. 
Unfit,  are  the  poor  the?,  295  f. 
Uniformity  of  American  life,  166  f. 
Unions.     See  Labor  movement. 
University   of   Michigan,   supported 

by  popular  suffrage,  145. 

Van  Brunt,  Henry,  172,  391. 
Variation  of  ideas.  343. 
Veblen.  T.  V.,  119. 
Vulgarity  of  wealth  and  privilege, 
139  f. 


Watts'  Mammon,  346. 

Wealth.  136;  inheritance  of.  229.  236 

as  the  basis  of  open  classes.  248  ff. 

comparative  ascendency  of,  278  f. 

prestige  of.  303  f . ;  use  of,  304  f . 
We-feeling.    23.    31,   33   ff.,    189   ff., 

298,  333,  351.  415. 
Westermarck.  Edward,  24,  40  f. 
Wharton,  Edith,  102. 
Whateley,  150. 
Whitman,  176.  195  f.,  303. 
Will,  public,  395-419;    government 

as.  402  ff.;   some  phases  of.  411  fT. 

See  also  Opinion,  public. 
Winckelmann,  78. 
Women,  opening  of  new  careers  to, 

362  ff. 
Woods.  Robert.  43,  49. 
Woolman,  John,  413. 
Wordsworth.  165.  317. 
Worry,  a  cause  of  poverty,  297. 
Writing,  social  function  of,  72  ff. 
Wrongs,  social,  not  willed,  400  f. 

Young  Men.  in  relation  to  classes 
223,  273  f.,  327. 


*36 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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>*" 


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